


Where The Wild Blood Flows

by Kidd_you_not



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: And so is everyone else, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blood and Violence, Clint Barton is a badass, Dark Fantasy, Destiny, M/M, Mages, The Witcher AU, The Witcher Fusion, Witchers, alchemists, background war starvation and sickness, based on the games and books, but mostly the games, monster hunting, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kidd_you_not/pseuds/Kidd_you_not
Summary: Clint’s life was relatively simple. He killed monsters, he got paid, he healed and he moved on before he ran into either a black clad or a witch hunter. He had about 3 friends in the world, if he counted his horse, and he was fine with that. Life was good, until one day he heard about King Radovid V of Redania hosting a contest that could earn him quite a hefty sum.A nice little competition, together with the prize money, was all he had wanted, but suddenly he found himself in a mismatched group setting out on a quest against an Ice Giant. And destiny seemed to have its eyes on them.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 67
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Witcher AU I really wanted but couldn’t find, so I made my own. Set during the third Northern War against Nilfgaard.
> 
> This will end up pretty long winded, slow burn-y and with hopefully a long-spanning plot. I want to explore the vast world of the Witcher, the dynamics, the magic, fighting, kind of everything, so buckle up, folks.
> 
> I hope you like reading this as much as I liked writing it.

Ihe cold air burning in his airways. No trace of a predator, monster or human. Only the sweet smell of horse and leather, forest and impending frost. Sighing, he lowered his eyes to the ground. He spotted his companion’s tracks immediately and followed them towards the quick sound of running water. While dodging a thick bramble berry hedge, some of its thorns caught on the sleeve of his right arm and with a curse, he ripped it out. Groaning quietly, he examined the scratch in the leather. Just one more among the countless little marks giving away his armour’s extensive use.

A couple more steps and the trees parted, giving way to a small stream of clear water. It ran through a clearing surrounded by young oaks, soft reed growing close to the water. His eyes fixed on the silhouette ahead, he approached on silent feet. “Don’t know why I bother tying you to stuff, Luck.” The horse startled, turned his head and neighed, a little disgruntled. Clint gave him a raised eyebrow. “Can’t say that idea of yours was bad, though.” With a groan, he lowered himself to the water. “Those little fuckers might be weak, but throw in a couple dozen and you got yourself a good workout.” Lucky snorted. “You’re right. I shouldn’t miss this opportunity.”

Grunting, he pulled off his boots and gave a whine when his sore feet finally touched the blessed, ice cold water. He closed his eyes. He loved his job, the people he helped. It was his destiny, after all. But the almost constant pain, the torn muscles, broken fingers and flesh wounds were something not many witcher apprentices managed to get used to. He knew that his ability to take everything thrown at him set him apart from others, made him and people like him the best at what they did, but no week went by in which he did not long for a quiet house somewhere sheltered, a warm, crackling fire, enough wine to drown an army in and a companion by his side.

The chirping of birds ripped him out of his thoughts and brought him back to reality. It was late. So late that it was early again. All around him, the forest slowly awoke. There were blackbirds jumping through branches, a squirrel shooting up a young oak, its tiny claws shedding bits of bark in its wake and he could see a hare poke out its head from under an elder bush. He knew he needed to hurry, find a room or at least a safe spot to camp, but he was unwilling to leave this small piece of heaven.

A bird’s warning cry and the sound of flapping wings made him turn his head, his sharp eyes focusing. A flock had taken flight in a panic but its source was unclear. Clint cursed roughly. He’d known he should have grabbed Lucky and gotten further away from the site of the slaughter but he’d gotten distracted. And now, an unknown predator was probably getting closer. Quickly, he dried his feet, put his boots back on and pulled Lucky away from the last remaining lush grass of the season.

Sensing his hurry, the gelding didn’t resist and as soon as the witcher clicked his tongue, broke into a quick trot. The last time he’d let a monster surprise him, he’d gotten into a bloody fight with a kikimore and her offspring while wearing nothing but the skin he was born with. He’d rather not repeat that particular experience. A look thrown over his shoulder and he relaxed. He wasn’t a coward but when in Velen and after a night spent fighting, it never hurt to be cautious. He slowed Lucky down a little.

At midday, he stopped by a junction in the road. Putting his elbow onto the saddle in front of him, he leaned his chin on his open palm and yawned. Time to sleep. He chose the left road, following the sign pointing towards a medium sized village he could see from a distance.

As soon asthey entered the village, he loosened Lucky’s reins and slouched. Yawned again and blinked. Shit, he could barely keep his eyes open. Finally, a small inn came into view behind a bend. People dressed in torn, dirty clothes walked by, giving him weird looks and he remembered the monster blood that must stand out like a treant visiting a redanian market. But whatever. He’d stopped caring about the opinion of people he’d likely never see again a long time ago. Also, their fear, the usual distrust of everything non-human. He could do nothing to change it, after all.

In front of the tavern, he heaved himself out of the saddle with a groan. He could really do with a new, more comfortable one. Looking up, Clint’s eyes found the sign posted above the entrance. “The Griffin,” he muttered. “Of course.” That was the fourth inn with that name he’d come across in two months. Not very creative, Velen’s people. The door burst open with a bang and he stepped back when two burly man strolled out, laughing. They spotted him and fell quiet.

He ignored them, but he could still feel their eyes on him as he tied his horse to the water trough and hefted the saddlebags over his shoulder. “Behave,” he told Lucky with a pat. Lucky only snorted and started munching. Clint felt a little sting of envy.

  
  


The inn was dimly lit by a couple of candles and the meagre fall light sneaking through the occasional window. Confidently, he walked past the few tables and fewer patrons. He was used to this routine.

“You got a room or only alcohol?” he asked the innkeeper without a greeting. He probably wouldn’t have gotten one back anyway.

“Yeah, we got some free. Not cheap, though, for folk like you,” the man ground out. It never is, Clint thought, but kept his sigh inside. It wasn’t just the blood that tipped people off; the armour and medallion certainly played their part as well.

“One night please, plus whatever the meatiest meal your kitchen has to offer, at sundown. And a couple bottles of beer, too.” He dug out the leather bag he put some of the money he traveled with in. The rest was in his boots, trousers and jerkin. It was a better strategy than keeping it all together for the thieves and bandits to see, that much was clear. As much as Clint liked a good row, fighting humans never felt quite right to him. He knew that some of his colleagues didn’t share that opinion. “Also, there’s a horse outside that needs a good rub down.”

“There’s no beer.”

This time, he didn’t bother suppressing the sigh. “Whatever gets me drunk, then.” A grunt was the only response. Taking the room key along with his room number, he took the pointed out stairs, unlocked one of only three rooms and dropped the saddlebags next to the shabby bed. He didn’t care, he only thought of more than a dozen hours of sleep not spent on the cold, hard ground. Not bothering to step out of his boots or wash his face, he fell onto the bed and was gone in a heartbeat.

Loud knocking startled him out of a deep and dreamless sleep. With a snort, he raised his head off his pillow, which was now smeared with grime and dry flecks of blood. Grunting, he flipped it around. Another knock sounded and he heaved himself out of bed, smacking his lips. He was parched. Sleeping in his armour might not have been the smartest thing to do.

He opened the door and was immediately greeted by the hearty smell of what must have been meatloaf. He moaned obscenely and coloured when he heard a small giggle coming from behind the edible wonder. A little girl, no older than ten, pushed the tray into his hands, grinned at him and curtsied unsteadily. “Enjoy,” she squeaked and ran back towards the stairs.

“Thank you!” He called after her with a smile, and brought the food inside. He put it down on the wooden dresser he hadn’t even noticed upon his arrival. Next to it, there was a small water bowl and a rag he could later clean himself with, but that had to wait.

After not having eaten in almost a day, digging in and stuffing himself felt like the closest Clint would ever get to salvation. He picked up the bottle of Sodden Mead, unscrewed it and took a hefty swig. He moaned. Perfect. The stuff wasn’t exactly exquisite, but it was one of his favourites. Yawning again, he resolved to finish his meal, the mead and finally wash himself. He’d have to clean his armour as well, he reminded himself grimly. And figure out where he’d go next.

His normal routine was to travel south come winter, but for the last couple of years, the danger of running into nilfgaardian troops had been steadily growing until it outweighed the benefits of spending the cold season someplace not as frosty as Redanian, or as soggy as Temeria. 

_ I haven’t been to Kaedwen in a while _ , he thought. Kaedwen, with Aerdirn to the south and Redania to the right, was usually a good place to hunt. Eight years, to be exact. It was cold, yes, but a wardrobe change was manageable. He’d tried to stay out of the country because visiting Ard Carraigh, the capitol, brought him uncomfortably close to Kaer Morhen, the base of a witcher school he was no member of. While witchers don’t normally fight against each other, it was considered bad manners to hunt on another School’s turf.

But Clint had friends, or at least people he was friendly with in Kaedwen and after not having seen them in so long, a short visit seemed only appropriate. Smiling, he continued. Novigrad wasn’t too far away. There, he could follow the Pontar east. He’d take enough missions in Temeria to keep himself and lucky fed until Ard Carraigh, because hunting that close to the School of The Wolf might bring him more trouble than it was worth. Their witchers weren’t known to be particularly aggressive but if you happened upon one, another was often close; they resembled their namesakes in that matter.

Having grown up in Kaer Seren, the School of The Griffin, Clint wasn’t used to sticking with his fellow witchers. There had only been one other apprentice when he was a child, Barney, and more often than not, they hadn’t gotten along. And Poviss and Kovir were neither big nor profitable enough to warrant sticking around, so like many of his fellow Griffins, he’d spread his wings and gone looking for better hunting grounds. Or at least that’s what he liked to think. He could safely say that he did not give two shits about the people he’d met there.

Longingly, while rubbing a stain out of his trousers, he thought of Natasha, the one true connection he’d made with another person. She was a witcher from the School of The Cat, which had been the first to accept female apprentices into their ranks. Clint found it quite telling that the times had been dire enough, and were still dire enough, to make those old sexists change their minds. It was to their gain, though, because he knew that his friend was one of the best, far better than himself, out there and that she had apparently brought her school enough money and reputation to make his own old masters turn green in envy. 

The sun was long gone by the time Clint finished cleaning himself and his armour and he was dead tired again. At least this night, he would be warm and comfortable. He closed his eyes.

  
  


Again, it was knocking that drew Clint out of his slumber. His jaw cracked on a yawn and he stretched contentedly. No soreness. As exhausting as his last fight was, it usually took more to feel its aftermath later on. His metabolism helped, he guessed.

“Get up, Witcher!” someone roared from the hallway. Grumbling, Clint pulled himself out of the bed. 

“They don’t even let you sleep in, in peace,” he rasped, grabbing his water flask. While doing so, his eyes fell upon the windows letting in a bright stream of sunlight.

“It’s almost midday,” he mumbled. No wonder the innkeeper had come to throw him out himself. Well, whoops. Quickly, he stepped into his freshly cleaned trousers, boots and jerkin, stuffed the last of his belongings into his saddlebag and strapped his swords and bow across his back. The quiver, as always, went to its usual place at his waist. Geared up like that, most people thought twice about insulting or even robbing him, and the same seemed to be true for the innkeeper when Clint opened the door to the hallway.

Being taller than most others has always served Clint well and carrying around enough weapons to outfit a group of bandits with usually did the rest. Even now, he could see the fuming man in front of him shrink back a little. “You’re late,” the man barked anyway.

“I am very sorry for that,” Clint replied politely, “I’ll be gone, now.” With a nod at the other’s surprised face, he stepped past him into the hallway and went down the stairs. There were only a few patrons present, and all turned their judgemental eyes on him. Ignoring them, he strode to the bar and dropped a couple oren on the counter. “For your trouble,” he said towards the stunned woman cleaning behind it. He generally didn’t go around shoving money at people, but the witcher trade had an abysmal reputation and Clint would not be the one worsening it even more. Besides, most of the people looked like they were only a couple weeks away from starvation or death by disease. Before she could answer, he turned and left the building. Outside, he took a second to enjoy the thin ray of sunlight warming his face against the cool air. Kaedwen would be much colder already, he reminded himself with a sigh. He may have grown up in the far north, but he’d never enjoyed the harsh weather.

To his left, Lucky raised his head and gave him a mulish look. “Sorry, Luck. Late again,” he apologised and brushed a little straw out of his mane. He hummed happily when he realised that someone had taken the time to clean his gelding thoroughly for once. He stroked Lucky’s left foreleg and the animal obediently raised it so Clint could inspect his hooves. Clean as well. Satisfied, Clint dropped it. The saddle sat right as well.

“Did you clean him up?” He asked a fourteen year old looking boy who stood leaning against the wooden fence separating the inn from the street. The boy nodded, nervously.

“You did a good job, boy,” the witcher praised him and handed him a couple coins. “Thank you.” The kid beamed. Without further ado, he swung himself into the saddle, gave the boy one last nod and rode off. In a few days, he’d be in Novigrad where he’d stock up on supplies for the long travel ahead.

  
  


Novigrad wasn’t what he remembered. He hadn’t been there in a couple of years and the town seemed to have changed drastically. Every couple of steps, he spotted a poster rallying the citizens against non-humans and he’d come across more than one preacher shouting about the cult of the Eternal Flame. Even before entering the city, the atmosphere had been charged enough that he had drawn out his long coat from Luck’s saddlebags, had pulled it on and drawn the hood up. Better not have anyone freak out over his weapons or medallion. Or his scarred and bruised face. He’d left Lucky at a tavern outside of Novigrad’s walls and now only carried an empty sack with him. It would hopefully be full upon his return.

It was when he haggled about the prize of five apples that a voice sounded behind him, echoing from the stone buildings surrounding the marketplace.

“It is hereby announced, that Radovid the fifth, son of Vizimir the second and King of Redania, invites all witchers, monster hunters and mages into the fortress of Drakenborg. He is hosting a competition set to determine the best hunter there is. The one to slay the beast will be rewarded with five thousand Novigrad Crowns.”

Clint wasn’t the only one who gasped at the prize.  _ Holy shit _ , he thought. But he wondered. Why would Radovid V, a king most known for his hatred of non-humans, invite those exact people into the heart of his country? It wasn’t Tretogor, but still one of the major strongholds Redania possessed. His instinct told him to be careful, but the money…

It wouldn’t be the first time that a regent put a prize on the head of a particularly dangerous creature plaguing his land, and Clint was curious. The announcer had been waiting for the murmuring crowd to calm down, but now he continued. Clint drew himself out of his musings and focused back on him.

“The contest will take place in a fortnight. There will be no prize of admission, but be aware that only the most skilled monster slayers will be chosen to join.” Clint frowned, while parts of the crowd booed. So it wasn’t gonna be a traditional tournament. Also, it was most probably dangerous enough to participate in that inexperienced fighters could lose their lives. Now he was even more intrigued. But the announcer was done, rolled the missive up and stepped off the podium.

Clint turned around. “I’ll give you seventy crowns for those apples, a bag of baked potatoes, a loaf of bread, and some dried fish and fruit.”

  
  


Stepping outside the Novigrad’s walls felt like a weight lifting off his shoulders. No more suspicious glances, no more animosity in the air. And of course, the soft smell of the forest instead of that of human waste. He hefted the bag over one shoulder and started walking. He still hadn’t come to a decision. Joining a competition and winning a hefty sum of money? He felt young again, that’s how excited the thought got him. He used to partake in archery contests and win them without breaking a sweat but those days were long past him. And he’d already planned to go to Ard Carraigh.

Thoughtful, he wandered back to where he had left Lucky. “Boy, there may be a change of plans.” Lucky snorted. “I know, I know. We had plans. But this could be awesome. That money could get us an extended vacation. Months of peace and calm, filled with food, wine and company. All the mares you could want.” He got a headbutt in the side for that. Regaining his balance, he started unloading the supplies into the saddlebags. He sniffed disdainfully when the smell of his own dirty clothes reached his nose. That money could get him more than just food and alcohol.

Done, he mounted the horse. “Oh, well. Kaedwen won’t disappear if we take a little detour.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are revealed, some are not and Clint meets two old friends.

Almost a fortnight later, Clint rode up to the Drakenborg fortress on the day of the first snowfall. The soft flakes slowly fell, only disturbed by the soft breeze. The thin layer covering the road in front of them was only interrupted by the occasional traces of travellers, on horse and foot. Clint might not be the first to arrive and he was fine with that. Hanging out at a stranger's place with no one to talk to was boring anyway. Like this, he’ll at least have a few colleagues waiting for him, some of which he might already know.

The fortress was hard to miss with its looming dark stone walls. A moat and drawbridge separated it from any potential invaders. The soldiers guarding the end of the road tensed when he approached. He came to a halt in front of them and ignoring their distrustful gazes, he introduced himself with a polite bow.

“Clint Barton, of Elsterberg. I am here to join the competition.”

Still wary, they eyed him. “Never heard of that,” one finally said.

“You wouldn’t. It’s a small village in central Lyria.”

“Ah,” the other grumbled, “and why should we let you join? This ain’t for everyone, boy.” Clint almost laughed. He may look younger than the guard, but he was sure to be his senior by a couple of decades. Wordless, he pulled out the griffin headed medallion from under his coat. Their eyes bulged and hurriedly, they nodded.

“Go along. Your kind gets an immediate pass.” The younger of the two turned around, put his fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle. With a groaning sound, the drawbridge lowered.

Clint grinned and put the medallion back. “Out of curiosity, what would you have done if I didn’t have this proof of skill?” The older one snorted.

“Fought you. Let’s be thankful it didn’t come to that.” Playfully, Clint tipped the men a salute, gripped Lucky’s reins and stepped past them and into the keep.

Inside, a young man came up to him and offered to take the gelding. “I will bring your bags to your rooms, Sir, which you can get from the quartermaster.” He pointed at a man sitting at a desk close to the gate. "Your name, please?“ he asked. Clint answered and the young man gave a small bow and guided Lucky towards the stables, away from the busy courtyard. A little thrown by the polite greeting, Clint took a few seconds to assess his surroundings. The expansive courtyard was filled with people, servants and messengers hurrying around, going about their business. He sidestepped a lanky man carrying several buckets of water towards the stables. The yard was framed by high walls, manned with guards looking down at them. People had put up rickety market stands below them and the walls echoed a myriad of voices.

Content, he turned towards the quartermaster, a burly man with dark hair and a grey beard. The man only looked at him drily and picked up a quill, a long piece of parchment in front of him. “Name?”

“Clint Barton of Elsterberg, in Lyria.”

“Profession?”

“Witcher.” The man hesitated and looked at him.

“You’re the second today. Might leave not much room for competition.” Clint shrugged. He didn’t really care about the competition. In fact, the less untrained, inexperienced people took part, the better. Many tried to make a living out of hunting monsters, thought they could be just as good as witchers who had undergone a body altering procedure and lifelong training to get where they were. Most didn’t survive the first month.

After writing down his details, the quartermaster waved a waiting servant over. “She will take you to your room in the guest quarters. There is a common room where you can meet the others and a meal will be brought to your door at sundown.“ The servant curtsied flawlessly and led Clint away. He followed her through the courtyard into the keep and through a maze of cold corridors with blank walls only lit by torches.

His room was smaller than he had expected. A bed with red curtains, a dresser, a chair and table were all it contained. There was a door leading to a small bathroom.  _ Thank Melitele _ , he thought. Finally, he could have a warm bath after months of washing himself in cold streams and tiny washing bowls.

“Can you draw me a bath?“ he asked the servant woman.

“As you wish,” she answered, curtsied and left. Seeing who else had answered Radovid’s call could wait. Clint had an afternoon full of relaxation planned.

After dinner, Clint stepped out of his room wearing fresh clothes for the first time in what felt like months. He’d given the staff his dirty clothes and was given a fresh set of shirt and trousers in return, along with the promise that his laundry would be done as soon as possible. The armour, he had kept. No witcher would ever give his armour away, even for only a few hours, especially in a country widely known for its racist beliefs.

Every witcher’s armour was special, made specifically to support their unique traits. Clint’s own was a mix of heavy and light armour, perfectly designed to give him agility while still being able to take heavy hits. He wasn’t like Nat, who was fast enough to avoid any hit coming her way and return it with deadly precision, but he made do. His strength lay in his marksmanship, the ability to never miss a target and thus, his armour left him the range of movement needed to make every shot, easy or not, and the possibility to enter close range fights and come out on top. It was a gem, invaluable and he’d never let it out of his eyes.

The same was true for his weapons. It wasn’t just that they were finely adjusted to him and needed to be in prime conditions at all times; most of them were also enchanted. Once upon a time, the Griffin School had boasted a library of such rare and powerful books on magic that a group of mages had gotten jealous and angry at their unwillingness to share their knowledge and had destroyed it and all it contained. The ancient books were gone but the knowledge had still been in the heads of the School’s members, and so it was passed down. Clint himself had never been any good at it, but some things he could do. Signs and basic spells, for one, but as long as someone he trusted put the more difficult enchantments he needed on his weapons and he only needed to activate them, he was good.

His quiver only allowed arrows to leave it if it was Clint, and only Clint, who was the one pulling them out. He’d thought of that one after one too many times he’d taken a fall and lost all his arrows. If he tapped his bow once while aiming and let a little power flow into it, his next arrow would fly further and faster than the human eye could see. The tattoo behind his ears, a present from Bobbi, tethered magic that circumvented the damage to his eardrums and gave him his superior hearing back. Most of the enchantments had to be refreshed every couple of months but they served well in making his world easier and had saved his life more than a fair few times. Especially the hearing charm.

The only things he did not magically mess with were his bombs, because those were already unstable enough without his untalented ass messing them up even further.

The hallway was dim, but Clint willed his eyes to adjust. He’d planned to take a walk, look around a bit, but movement in the corner of his eye made him turn. A female form clad in black leather rounded a corner at the far side of the hallway. It was the flaming red hair that made him shout out.

“Nat!” He hurried to catch up. She came back into view with a curious look in her eyes and brightened when she saw his face. He slowed down and crushed her in a hug; he hadn’t seen her since spring. She laughed.

“I knew I’d meet you here, Clint,” she murmured into his ear. He let go of her.

“How have you been?” He grinned, overjoyed.

“Oh, you know,” she winked and he laughed. She was always secretive, but in this instance he guessed that she just didn’t have anything interesting to report. Nat and him, they had met decades ago, when he’d been freshly graduated and traveling alone for the first time in his life. He’d learned a lot from her, that was for sure.

“You’re here for the competition, too?”

“Yeah. I was quite surprised when I heard about it. A contest for monster hunters, held by Radovid and  _ that _ princely prize sum?” She shook her head. “I’m intrigued, to say the least.”

“Same here. The money’s nice, but I couldn’t get it out of my head anyway. I thought I’d probably end up disappointed that I’d missed the adventure of a lifetime, so I came.” He shrugged.

She gave him an amused look. “Of course.” He chuckled.

“Are you after the money?” he asked. She raised her eyebrow.

“Of course. There is a lot of work to do and five thousand crowns would go a long way in rebuilding my School.”

“Are you looking to settle down?” The Cat School had been nomadic for so long because making enough money to build or buy a secure keep, estate or castle was hard. Their reputation of being nothing but assassins for hire didn’t help matters; countries felt uncomfortable having them set up shop inside their borders. For the better part of a century, Natasha had worked tirelessly to redeem her people, but he knew that it had never been easy.

“We are and that much money can boost our budget far enough to be able to concentrate our efforts into rebuilding.”

“Aw, I wanted to invest it in a nice, long holiday.” She elbowed him, hard.

“Face it, you’d get bored after one week.” He snorted, but tilted his head in agreement.

She took his arm and together, they stepped outside and into the frigid night air. More snow had fallen during the day and the battlements were covered in a thick layer. He breathed out and watched the air steam out of his lungs. Tiny forms moved in the dark and the only reason he was able to see them at all in the moonless night, were his superior eyes.

“You arrived today, I take it?” He turned to Natasha.

“Yesterday, actually. Why?” His eyebrows shot up and she eyed him curiously.

“Because upon my arrival, the quartermaster said I was the second witcher who’d arrived today.”

She gave him a mischievous smile and grabbed his arm again. “There’s someone you would probably like to see again.” She led him inside.

Confused, he didn’t protest and let her guide him to a different hallway from their own. She knocked on the first door on the right and stepped behind him. He gave her a questioning look over his shoulder. “What-” He broke off when the door opened.

He turned his head and dropped his jaw when he caught a glance of a griffin medallion, dark skin and a gap-toothed grin.

“Sam!” He shouted and threw himself forward. Sam caught him with a booming laugh and dragged him inside. Behind them, Natasha closed the door.

“My friend! I haven’t seen you in years!” Sam returned, with only a little more dignity.

“Where have you been, you old troublemaker?” Clint asked and Sam laughed again.

“I’ve spent the last year in Zerrikania.” Sam’s homeland. “It was great, but I got a little homesick so I came back to see the Dragon Mountains.”

Clint groaned. “In winter? Are you sick?” He tried putting his hand on Sam’s forehead, but the other only batted it aside.

“And what about you?” Sam asked. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I’d begun to wonder. I thought you’d bit the dust.”

Clint had to laugh again. “Me? Never!” He took a step back and spread his arms.

“You have to admit, Clint, that you tend to get into the most impossible situations.” Having made herself comfortable on Sam’s bed, Natasha harrumphed. He went to join her, leaving Sam to give them both an exasperated look.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clint said while crossing his arms behind his head and laying down. He sighed, contentedly.

“Clint.” Sam looked at him faux sternly. “Remember when you fell out of that brothel’s window?”

“Wasn’t a brothel,” Clint muttered, but was ignored.

“Or when you fell into a sinkhole in Fornhala filled to the brim with Endrega?” Nat chortled.

“Or when you tried to combine your Samum with a little magic and ended up paralysed for a week?” That had actually been pretty terrifying.

“In my defence,” he started, “that actually worked. It just worked too well.” Both of his friends burst out laughing. He joined with a more subdued chuckle.

A few minutes later, after Sam squeezed himself onto the bed as well, the mood turned serious.

“So, what have you really been doing for all these years?” Clint tried again.

Sam sighed. He looked tired, but before Clint could apologise, he answered. “I moved around with Kovir’s army, for almost ten years.” Nat’s eyes widened. She hadn’t known that either.

“You got involved?”

“Not really,” Sam mumbled uncomfortably. “I stayed with them, but I didn’t join any skirmishes. I mostly stayed around, kept monsters off their backs and helped with the wounded.” One of Sam’s many talents was healing magic, a skill envied and sought by many. Sam swallowed. “I just… I met them and then, I couldn’t not help, you know.” Oh, he did. They both hummed sympathetically. They all did. “So we moved around and I got really close to this guy. A soldier. His name was Riley.” His voice broke and Clint and Nat exchanged a concerned glance. He put an arm around Sam’s shoulders; Clint already knew how the story ended.

Sam leaned into him, just a little. “He died, in a bandit raid. And I couldn’t save him.” Clint saw Natasha grab Sam’s hand and give it a squeeze. Witchers were discouraged from getting involved with normal humans for that exact reason. A witcher, as long as he didn’t get killed, far outlived any potential friend or lover. Their longevity, damage resistance and immunity from diseases made it so.

They stayed silent for a while, each caught in their own memories, until Sam shook himself. “Have you been to the common room yet?”

“Nah.” Clint stretched. “Not really looking forward to socialising all that much.”

Nat chuckled. “Yeah. Besides, it’s not like there’s polite conversation to find there. Or manners, for that matter.” She grimaced. “I poked my head in once and all I saw was burly men boast about their fighting skill and past accomplishments. I’m guessing most of them have never seen an actual fight.”

Sam laughed. “You’d be right about at least a few of them. You know the Starks?” Clint tilted his head.

“Isn’t that some super rich merchant family from Aedirn?”

“They bought a title and a bit of land in Redania along with it a year ago.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “They are lords now.” Clint and Sam snorted simultaneously.

“I saw their youngest, Anthony, along with his friend Sir Rhodes in the common room an hour ago. Damn, but the boy was boasting so much, I thought his mouth would fall off.” They laughed. “I am sure he’s been trained, but he’s so fresh faced, I’m sure his mother just weaned him last year.”

“Oho, in such noble and competent company, I shall do my best to not embarrass myself. They might just snatch the prizeprize from under our noses, after all!” A round of giggles followed Clint’s outcry.

When they had calmed down, Clint sighed contentedly. “Any actual competition?” he finally asked.

Natasha shrugged. “You know the Marauders?” He shook his head. “A group of three men, nothing but glorified bandits if you ask me. But they have made a name for themselves around these parts.” He hummed thoughtfully.

“As of now, we seem to be the only witchers present but that could change. The contest is set to begin the day after tomorrow, after all. We might have to expect even more competitors.”

Clint nodded. Then he asked, “How many are there already?”

Sam shrugged and looked at Nat. “About two dozen, I’d say.” She inclined her head in agreement. Clint groaned.

“That many? What kind of contest is that supposed to be?”

Nat hummed. “I might have an idea.” They looked at her curiously. “I have heard rumours about a terrible monster occupying Redania’s side of the Kestrel Mountains. Supposedly, it has already killed dozens of travellers and the King is worried about trade with Kaedwen.” Normally, the Pontar was used as the go to route for merchants but recently, trade in Northern Redania has gotten stronger so many merchants opted to take the more direct route through the mountains to set up shop there.

“So the one to slay the monster will keep the prize?” Sam asked. 

Natasha shook her head, making her red locks dance in the torchlight. “I think he intends to send all of us. The whole group. At once.” 

Clint gaped. “But that’s idiotic,” he exclaimed. Sending a group of more than maybe a dozen people could lead to unimaginable consequences, backstabbing included. Next to him, Sam frowned heavily.

“What the hell,” Clint muttered. In all honesty, an undertaking like that was doomed from the beginning. But Sam and Nat were here, so leaving them was kind of out of the question for him.

“You know what,” Clint started, “let’s do it anyway. We’ll have each other’s back and if it gets too dangerous, we leave. No big deal, no collateral damage.” Sam still looked thoughtful, but Natasha nodded.

“I’m in,” she said. “That prize is too good to chicken out of.”

Sam sighed, but shrugged. “You two, I swear. Alright, I’ll join, but only to keep you guys out of trouble.” Grinning, Natasha and Clint exchanged a glance. He could try.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After days of waiting, our group is finally told what the contest ist about and promptly acquires two more members.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I‘m sorry this is so late, I had to completely overhaul the entire thing because of a... creative miscalculation? That could be the word. And just thinking about it made me want to stick my head in the sand. So that‘s what I did.

Two nights later and the keep seemed to be full to the brim with parading knights, rough looking men carrying around probably stolen weaponry and dark figures keeping to the shadows. Clint had never seen an assortment of so many people just screaming  _ Untrustworthy! _ at him. He’d rarely ventured out of his rooms during the last days; all the buzz set his instincts into a frenzy. From the looks of it, Stark was not the only lord hoping to have his knights win him a hefty sum. The sheer extravagance he’d encountered made his skin crawl, let alone the amount of posturing. Now Clint found two jacked up guys shouting at each other as hilarious as the next guy but Nat didn‘t stay the only one in their group whose eyes hurt from constant rolling.

At sundown of Clint’s third day at Drakenborg, a servant knocked on his door. “An hour until the meeting, Sir.” Hurriedly, he went about cleaning himself and putting on his armour. While he’d been informed that weapons would not be permitted in the Great Hall, he was not gonna miss it tonight; it wouldn’t do for the competition to underestimate him, after all. Normally, he actively encouraged that but he had a feeling that this night, a show of strength was needed.

Not long after, another knock sounded. When he opened the door, he came face to face with Sam and Natasha. Both had apparently had the same thought as him. Sam’s armour looked quite similar to Clint’s; except that Clint had fingerless gauntlets for shooting, more range of movement in the shoulders and they had both chosen to pick their own colours. Sam’s colours had always been red and white, while Clint had, humbly, picked purple to line the leather and steel. A much better colour anyway, was his thought.

Natasha, as always, wore the sleek, dark, fur lined feline armour he’d come to associate with her. Light in weight and stretchy where she needed it. It made her weak to heavy hitters but those tended to be way slower than her, so he wasn’t worried. She’d opted for stealth in her design, leaving it dark blue. She raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”

He only nodded. It wasn’t his first time meeting nobility but since he’d always done his best to evade them, the times he had were still few and far between. The Griffin School had a penchant for training their pupils in etiquette and manners, simply because it made a witcher more likely to be employed and rewarded generously, but Clint was a klutz on his best days and no amount of training had ever changed anything about that. Sam, though, could be slick as hell; he’d already seen that. And Natasha had made slipping between people’s defences and leading a conversation to her whim an art form.

So he was probably the only one feeling nervous and unprepared. Great.

The guards standing next to the entrance to the Great Hall gave them only a passing glance, neither of them noticing the numerous knives each of them had on their person. Weapons were forbidden, but surely only the obvious ones? At least that’s what he thought. Past the giant wooden door, they were met with an assault of voices.

“Looks like someone dived headfirst into the wine,” Sam muttered. Clint had to agree. They were all supposed to have their evening meal together but most already had used dishes in front of them as well as several empty beer bottles. The walls were lined by guards, all keeping a suspicious eye on the rowdiest people. He could barely see through the tight shuffle of the crowd. How did all of them even fit inside the hall? He looked over at his companions and shook his head. Looking for a table to sit at was futile. As was hoping for food, it seemed.

Together, they moved away from the door and to the left and took up some rare free space outside the hubbub. It didn’t take long until a door at the far side of the hall banged open, and out strode King Radovid V in all his regal glory, dressed in the finest silk with a jewelled crown upon his head and a stern look on his face. For a second, Clint was thrown by how young he looked but then he remembered. The man was in his early twenties and he already looked like a hardened general.

Immediately, the room fell silent, the only sound heard the soft flicker of torches and the heavy stomp of the King’s feet. Clint had no trouble seeing everything; he was taller than most other men present and had, even for a witcher, extraordinary eyesight. Many others, though, had to crane their necks.

Radovid came to a halt at the head table and turned to face the room. Clint thought he saw a flicker of disdain as he examined the people in front of him, but then he raised his voice: “I want everyone who has never killed a monster nor has the necessary skills to do so to leave, right now.” A murmur arouse, but no one moved. The King smiled grimly.

“Good. Welcome everyone, to Drakenborg, Redania’s most formidable stronghold.” He spread his arms, encompassing the room. “I am sure that you all are impressive fighters. In fact, I know it.” Sweetness dripped from his words and Clint’s stomach coiled. That’s why he hated, hated politics.

But undisturbed, the King continued. “I have called you all here today, because I have a problem. Quite a big one, I have to say.” Another round of murmurs rose and he waited until the room had quietened again. “But I warn you. It is not an easy task and could surely end in death.” The room hung on his every word.

“The creature I want you to slay, gentlemen, is an Ice Giant.” Clint felt himself bristle involuntarily. Immediately, the hall erupted into noise. There were sounds of disbelief, anger and disappointment. A fucking Ice Giant, though. Sure, Clint had heard of them but had always assumed they were nothing but stories or had at least died out centuries ago. How the hell were they supposed to kill an Ice Giant? Had anyone ever done it and lived to tell the tale? Now, this whole show made sense. Of course, sending one hunter alone would be futile. Radovid needed a whole troop of competent fighters. He met the incredulous looks of his friends. Clint wasn’t the only one stumped, it looked like.

When the hall gave no sign of calming down, Radovid clapped his hands, loud. All eyes turned to him. “Now, gentlemen.” Natasha growled and a few heads turned their way. “It is perfectly understandable if you want to withdraw from the competition. If that is the case, I ask you to leave the hall and be gone by midday tomorrow.”

At first, there was no response. Then, the shuffling began. With surprised eyes, Clint watched as over two thirds of the crowd turned to leave.  _ Not drunk enough to be this stupid _ , he thought with approval. Ice Giants were frequently used in horror tales about unbeatable monsters. They weren‘t comparable to wyverns or werewolves and it seemed like even these fighters remembered their mother’s warnings. Minutes later, after it had become clear the remaining people were going to stayt, the King gestured at the now almost empty tables. “Please, sit down.”

At first, no one moved. Finally, Clint thought 'Fuck It' and went to sit down, his friends following. The spell was broken and the rest went to look for a seat. Clint guessed that around two dozen were still present. Once again, the room erupted into talk, amplified by the bare stone walls, but this time it wasn’t nearly as ear shattering as when the evening had begun. From all sides, servants appeared who cleaned the tables and brought fresh plates, glasses, food, and beverages. With Natasha next to him and Sam across the table, he felt much more comfortable.

Standing before the empty head table, Radovid took a seat and waved his hand. “So, now that our number has fallen, let me hear your thoughts. Lord Tyrn?” The finely dressed aristocrat they had noticed before jerked in surprise and stood up.

“Your majesty.” He bowed deeply. “I am honoured to be able to be of such important service to you. I hope I will not disappoint.” Clint grimaced. The fawning made his skin crawl and he could hear a condescending scoff coming from two big, heavy guys sitting only a few tables to his right. They were deep in conversation with each other; one kept gesturing wildly, while the other only sat tersely, with a locked jaw and a heavy frown on his face, and the occasional reply. Even from this distance, he could make out the medallions hanging around their necks.

Clint had missed Radovid’s answer to the Lord, which he wasn’t sad about. He could spend lifetimes away from formal speech and intrigue-riddled courts, he would never miss it. He watched, with mild interest only, as the other few were greeted. The two witchers were addressed before his own group and the taller, blond man stood to represent them.

“Your highness.” The blond gave a curt bow. “We are thankful for the opportunity to encounter such a rare and interesting opponent. But I’m sure we all agree that we need more information about it, so that we can fight it effectively.” 

Clint blinked at the man’s forwardness.

Radovid fixed them with a look, but nodded eventually. “Why not, Steven Rogers?” The blond‘s shoulders tensed, as well as his companion‘s. They did not seem to have expected the King to know their names. Clint tilted his head in idle curiosity. He tried to keep away from the gossip in the supernatural community but now and then he couldn‘t help but learn things, as well as names. And Rogers' name definitely felt familiar. He just wasn‘t sure why.

“The Giant first showed up around two months ago. No one knows where he came from, but we know where he roams. He has since killed countless travellers and I wish to banish this threat from my lands as swiftly as possible.” Nodding, Steve sat down with barely more information than he’d had a minute ago. And unexpectedly, Sam rose and bowed.

“Your majesty.” The King nodded and Sam gave a grateful smile, inclining his head submissively. “With all due respect, my king, but five thousand crowns may not be a suitable reward for fighting and killing such a dangerous creature.” The bastard had cranked the charm up to a hundred, Clint noted with a smile. “As a witcher, I know that Ice Giants are much more powerful than most other monsters we encounter, so we have to engage it in teams.” He gestured at the various groups around the hall. “Which means we will have to split the prize. Do you see my concern?” Radovid’s eyes drilled into Sam, but he didn’t waver. Someone had had to say it, after all.

Then, the King nodded again. “A fine observation, Sam Wilson.” This time, Sam, Clint and Natasha jerked as well. Sam was young and hadn’t made a name for himself quite yet, not like Natasha had at least. A king should know nothing of him, least of all the King of Redania. Thoughtful, Clint tipped his head. A rarely known fact was that Redania kept the most expansive spy network the whole continent had ever had the misfortune of tangling with and they had all given their names upon arrival. But the idea that Radovid had learned their names was outlandish. And worrisome.

“I understand your reservations but be aware that the Giant is said to have amassed a tremendous treasure, all of which will go to the one, or the ones, who slay it. Five thousand crowns won’t be able to compare, I assure you.” Clint frowned but kept himself from shaking his head while the King was still watching. He’d never heard about Ice Giants hoarding a treasure. Only dragons did that. Looking around, he spotted the same expression of befuddlement on the other witcher’s faces.

Meanwhile, the hall had fallen into whispers again. The Stark boy especially seemed to be over the moon, full of excitement for the alleged treasure. Even from their table, Clint could see the pleased glint in Radovid’s eyes. He had a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling. After a few moments, the King raised his hand and everyone fell silent again. Sam sat down.

“You will all head out tomorrow morning. Everyone will have a message containing all the relevant information, including the Giant’s location, brought to your rooms at sunrise. The first to return with proof of your success will be granted the prize money. I suggest you retire early, to save your energy. You will need it, after all.” Without another word, the man stood up and left the room. Immediately, the hall burst into sound again and Clint winced.

“What do you think?” Sam finally broke the silence between them. Thoughtfully, Clint tapped his fingers on the wooden table.

“I can’t believe it’s an Ice Giant. Do they actually exist?” He crinkled his nose.

Natasha hummed. “I have heard stories about one in Skellige who supposedly took over an entire island but I hadn’t believed them. Until today.” 

Sam groaned. “So extinct species are coming back. What’s next? Golden dragons?” They chuckled.

“I would love to see a golden dragon,” Clint said with awe. “That would be pretty awesome.” 

Sam shrugged, then asked, "“So, how are we gonna do this? Team up?”.

Natasha nodded. “Seems like our best option. Although, three witchers against one Ice Giant… I do not fancy our chances.” 

Clint had to agree. The legends spoke of creatures tearing down castles, mountains, entire armies. The three of them killing it seemed a little… improbable.

“We could group with some of the others. We’d have to share the prize, but at least we won’t end up smashed into a pulp,” he suggested. Sam grimaced in answer but Natasha inclined her head. Clint threw a glance at the two witchers he’d seen earlier but kept his mouth shut.

“That could work.” She cast a quick glance around. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice. “See that group over there?” She gestured to Clint’s left and he tried to follow her eyes as inconspicuously as possible. The party she was talking about seemed to be made of one aristocrat dressed in undoubtedly priceless silks and almost a dozen knights. Lord Tyrn, it looked like. Clint could have stopped himself from raising an eyebrow but he didn’t want to.

“Is he trying to impress a lady and plans to let his knights do the actual fighting? ‘Cause that’s what it looks like,” Sam whispered, having read Clint’s mind. He snorted in amusement. When one of the men glanced in their direction, they quickly turned away.

“I don’t think so, Nat,” Clint grumbled but Natasha let out one of her rare chuckles.

“Fine, if you wanna be like that.” She smirked and gestured again, this time to a table behind Sam. A group of three big, burly men had also stayed. Clint gave Nat a dubious look.

Sam, who had been unable to turn around in order to avoid suspicion, asked, “What do they look like?” And contented himself with examining their blurry reflections in a silver wine flask. Clint helped himself to some of it, as well as the seductive roasted duck right in front of him.

“They look like all their development went into their muscles instead of their brains,” Natasha answered drily. Clint tried to laugh and only succeeded in choking on his drink. After a thorough round of coughing and some heavy back thumping, they continued.

“And that guy?” Clint asked, but he already knew the answer. The young man in question had short black hair, wide eyes, an unblemished, pale skin and the widest grin Clint had ever seen.  _ That must be Stark _ , he thought. The boy couldn’t be in his twenties yet. And he had stayed, together with his friend, which meant that he’s either an incredible fighter or that he was so cocky it would bring about his death. Clint guessed it was the latter.

Sam sighed. “That’s the guy we told you about yesterday. I really hoped he’d have the sense to leave.”

“No chance,” Nat jumped in, “I know the type. I guess we’re all in agreement that they are a no-go?” They nodded.

“Good. Now, there are some faces I don’t know, but here we go. Last but not least, there are our fellow witchers,” Natasha explained in a low voice, lower than before. Clint almost sighed through the food in his mouth; he didn’t want to team up with any witchers he didn’t know. Most were civil but some, mostly the Bears and Vipers, were people to stay clear of. He could see the same thoughts running through Sam’s eyes.

Natasha, her face grim, continued. “Over there is Thor Odinson, God of Thunder. They call him the Prince of Skellige. He is rumoured to know little magic and that one of the only things he can do is call lightning from the sky, even on sunny days. He is an unpredictable fighter and instead of a sword, he uses a steel hammer and a silver axe. In short, he is pure chaos.” Clint knew that chaos was one of the few things Natasha found truly frightening, so he didn’t prod. Nervously, he looked in the indicated direction and almost choked again.

What he saw was the biggest man he’d ever seen, a man about as tall as himself, but what looked like twice as wide, packed with pure muscle. Long blond hair and a thick braided beard made him look just like his fellow country men, that much was clear. There was a smaller, more timid looking brown-haired man sitting in front of him but he kind of faded away since all eyes were drawn to his companion.

“Isn’t he from the School of The Bear?” Sam asked. Clint cursed silently. The Bear School was known for few things. One, they were destroyed once and were still in the process of rebuilding. Two, they wore heavy armour and dealt hits just as heavy. And three, they were volatile, often got into fights, fought for nothing but fun and have killed more than a few of their fellow witchers. Shit, a guy like that could ruin this whole quest and end up killing them all.

Natasha only nodded, tense. “There are only two more, as far as I can see.” She nodded her head at her right, where the two Clint had noticed earlier were still debating heatedly.

“School of the Wolf,” Clint murmured. Probably their best bet, team-up wise. Most Wolves were decent, in his experience. He himself, in order to not attract attention, had left the medallion inside his jerkin, just like Nat and Sam. But those two seemed wholly unconcerned about being noticed. Not that Clint believed that any men of their physique could ever go unnoticed.

And as they were all staring at the two, the dark haired one looked over, spotted them and glared right back. For a moment, their eyes met and Clint’s heart skipped a beat. Busted. Then, the blond followed his companion’s gaze and stood up. For a few seconds, Clint wondered about whether he’d get into a fistfight today but the man stopped in front of their table, nodding politely.

Clint tilted his head curiously and returned the nod. Then he internally shrugged. He’d let the others handle this, he decided, and dug back into his cooling food.

The Wolf introduced himself. “My name is Steven Rogers, or just Steve. Of Novigrad.” He turned and gestured at the other, dark haired man who’d followed him. “This is Bucky Barnes, of Vizima. May we sit down?” Natasha and Sam exchanged a glance, then nodded. The two sat down on Sam’s left and Clint absentmindedly noticed that Barnes seemed to have enough weaponry on his person to equip a small army. He wondered whether that was because he got into fights with much stronger opponents on the regular, because he went through knives like Clint went through arrows, or because he was just plain old overcompensating.

“I am Natasha Romanoff of Rowan. This is Sam Wilson of Zerrikania and this is Clint Barton of Elsterberg.” She pulled out her medallion, Clint and Sam following suit.

Rogers’ eyes widened. “A female witcher?” He snapped his mouth shut when he was met with three hard glares. Barnes snorted. “I mean,” he tried to rectify, “it is nice to make your acquaintance, my lady.” Clint couldn’t quite stifle his giggle. The guy had somehow found the one thing that made Nat even madder than having to explain her gender. When he’d heard him speak earlier, he’d come across as more adept at holding a polite conversation but Nat had that effect on more than a few.

“The Black Widow, right?” Barnes jumped in helpfully. Cooly, Natasha gave a nod.

“The Winter Soldier, I presume?” Oh damn. Clint had heard of The Winter Soldier. The tales were absolutely horrific.

“You presume right.” For a few seconds, they assessed each other. Then, Rogers cleared his throat.

“So, we’ve been hoping that the five of us could team up in order to win this. We could share the money, one thousand crowns each.” Clint wanted to grimace at the thought of arriving here with five thousand in his mind and leaving with only one but beggars couldn’t be choosers, he guessed. Sam already nodded.

“That could work,” he said. “Five people might stand a chance against an Ice Giant.”

Barnes snorted again. “Sure, if anything stands a chance against an Ice Giant,” he grumbled. Rogers elbowed him below the table and Clint had to press his lips together to hide a smile. Sam only raised a cold eyebrow.

“Man, looks like we’re off to a great start,” Clint mumbled, delighted. He probably shouldn’t find such pleasure in seeing Sam be uncharacteristically unpleasant with someone but for some reason, it tickled his funny bone.

“Anyway,” Rogers tried to salvage the conversation, “why do you think the King went to such lengths to get a monster killed? He could have just hired someone and it would have been less trouble for him.” Clint shrugged, the hand around his wine glass. He had his theories but did it really matter? The King did whatever he wanted to do and it would be foolish to assume he was being altruistic in any way. This contest served a purpose, one that didn’t include entertainment or the thrill of competition, he was sure of it.

“Well, this way he gets two dozen people to hunt instead of just a few. And he gets off pretty cheap, I’d say.” Sam shrugged as well. “In the end, he spends five thousand crowns on a job that one witcher would demand at least ten for. If he took it at all.” Rogers nodded, thoughtful. 

Clint almost sighed, but kept it in. This was exactly the reason Clint hated having to deal with royalty. Every single time, they tried to stiff him. He should have stayed in Temeria or gone to Kaedwen like he had planned, but that would also mean not having seen Nat or Sam. And he was reluctant to think of them in danger while he was far away. He gritted his teeth in frustration and looked up to see the Wolves exchange a heated, albeit whispered argument.

“The fucking hell, Steve,” Barnes hissed, “you know that’s bullshit!” Curious, he threw a look at Barnes. The man was shorter than him but broader in shoulder and chest. Seeing the lines on his face led Clint to believe that he spent a lot of time frowning heavily, or at least looking as sour as possible. Which wasn’t surprising considering the kind of history Barnes was rumoured to have.  _ What delightful company I can look forward to _ , he thought with some amusement. He looked away before the other man could catch him staring. Again.

“We have to trust him, Buck!” Came the equally hissed reply.

“Like hell! I’d trust Radovid as far as I can throw the fucking Ice Giant and so should you!” Clint was distracted by a hand on his forearm. He met Natasha’s eyes. The treasure, she mouthed.

“You know there’s no treasure, right?” he mumbled.

She nodded. “I know.” Sam frowned.

“But why lie?” he asked.

“Technically, he didn’t lie. He only said that there’s a rumour. If that rumour proves to be false, it’s no skin off his nose.” Natasha shrugged but Clint could see the displeasure in the lines of her body. Like all of them, she had come here hoping for a massive prize and would leave with either nothing or much less than what she had hoped for. The only difference between her and the rest of them was that she really needed the money.

“You know what?” Clint took her hand. “Maybe there is a treasure and we’ll leave with more valuables than we can carry.” She gave him a thankful smile but otherwise stayed quiet. He and Sam shared a sympathetic look until Rogers butted in again.

“I suggest we head out as soon as we get the message tomorrow. To get a head start on the others.” Sam turned to him.

“Which is probably exactly what everyone else is planning.” He looked over at their rivals who all seemed to be in deep discussion. “I am sure that we are better equipped and more skilled than any of them, save Odinson. We probably have better horses as well because ours are used to moving around, navigating the wilderness and traveling from sunrise to sunset. I say we use the morning to buy supplies and prepare, instead of leaving in haste.” Determinedly, he stared at them. Clint nodded. Sam’s proposal made sense. He’d rarely seen horses who could outrun a witcher’s and he himself had few supplies left, certainly not enough to make it another fortnight until they’d reach the mountains.

“I’m with you, Sam. I know my horse can take the fast travel but I don’t think the same is true for the Lords’. Also, I need to stock up on alchemical components,” Nat said before Clint could. Rogers and Barnes seemed dubious, but eventually agreed.

“So we’ll use the morning to prepare, buy food, sharpen our weapons. Let them run themselves ragged by trying to be the first out of the gate. Agreed?” They all nodded. “Which means I can finally go to sleep.” Sam rose in the exact moment a large, looming figure came to a stop beside their table. With a jolt, Clint realised that it was Thor and tensed.

“Greetings, fellow witcher!” the large man boomed. With a wide grin and sparkling eyes, he stuck his hand out to Sam. “You must be the Falcon. It is a pleasure to meet you, my friend.” Dumbfounded, Sam shook the big guy’s hand. From the looks of it, Thor had quite a strong grip.

“And you are?” Rogers inquired politely.

“I am Thor, son of Odin, from Kaer Trolde. And this is my companion, Bruce Banner of Geso.” He stepped aside and revealed the brown haired man Clint had seen with him earlier wave hesitantly. Thor continued, “I wish you all great luck on this quest. Shall we meet again.” With that, he turned and left, Banner following awkwardly behind.

Baffled, they collectively watched him leave. “That’s not how I imagined him to be,” Sam finally mumbled. 

“Well, at least he didn’t try to kill us,” Clint quipped, making Sam groan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is not expressed by how their quest starts and he could really do without a bunch of confusing feelings on top of that.

A knock startled Bucky out of a deep slumber. Sluggishly, he made his way out of his bed with sizeable regrets. He’d probably never sleep in a bed as comfortable as this one ever again. Another knock sounded and he grunted. He smacked his lips and reached for his water skin. Then, with a yawn, he pulled his shirt on and opened the door. An older woman curtsied and handed him a folded up note. As expected, he found the exact location of the Ice Giants suspected lair inside. He had to scoff again. An Ice Giant. The fucking nightmare of every kid growing up in Skellige. Bucky had been in this world for quite some time now and he had never before heard about something so absurd actually existing.

With a sigh, he turned towards the washing bowl. He’d have to hurry before Steve deemed him too late, strode in and dragged him out by his hair. It’d happened before. He put away his stuff and straps on his armour, the metallic gleam of it mirrored by that of his arm. That way, most people didn’t realise that his left arm wasn’t simply encased in metal armour until after he had left them behind for good. With his bags in hand, he left the room and walked through the dark, oppression corridors until he emerged into the courtyard he had arrived at.

His shoulders sagged when he felt the soft warmth of the fall sun and all previous tension left him. Inside, he’d been drawn and careful all the time but the fresh air seemed to become him. He looked around. Falcon’s prediction from yesterday seemed to have held true. All around the courtyard, people were frantically trying to depart. He could see knights and peasants alike run around like headless chickens, trying to get the best deal at the food stall or engaging in meaningless fights. As he watched two men knocked shoulders in their haste, turned around and started screaming at each other loud enough for Bucky to hear over the overall clamour. Reluctant horses were dragged out of the stables by their reigns, nervous and skittish from the turmoil. He shook his head in displeasure; the poor animals deserved better than to be treated that way.

He watched a man strike his stallion’s rear and growled. The horse screamed in fear. Before Bucky could react, though, the man was grabbed by his collar and hurled away. The Griffin School witcher from yesterday, Barton if Bucky remembered correctly, drew himself up to his impressive height right front of the asshole, looked down at the belligerent man and bared his teeth. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but after only a few exchanged words, the man slunk away with a lowered chin.

Barton turned towards the frightened horse and formed a sign with his left hand. Immediately, the bay calmed down and Barton raised his hands to pet him, his mouth moving. Something in Bucky’s stomach coiled tightly and uncomfortable with the intimacy between man and animal, he turned away. He’d seen enough anyway.

He slunk around, taking the long route to enter the stables without meeting Barton and halted in front of his gentle mare, Alpine. Someone had already fed her and her white fur shone brightly. She nickered a greeting and he stroke a hand through her soft mane. “Hey, girl.” he whispered. He dropped his belongings into her box. “Looks like there’s work ahead. Afterwards, we’ll finally take a break. I promise.”

Lazily, he spend the next hour eating his left over food and watching the ongoings around him. Although sunrise must be an hour away now, the courtyard was still bustling until finally, the older Lord and his knights managed to depart, leaving the rest of them much more room to navigate. The younger Lord, Stark if he was correct, immediately caused a scene right in the center. Apparently displeased about not having left first, he raised his voice at his mounting friend and threw his arms out, making his horse throw its head back in displeasure. He tried to reign it in but it was having none of it. It bucked wildly and worried, he was about to step forward until he saw Steve approach hastily, his hand already forming Axii.

He left them to it and let Steve straighten the young man out. Neither of them valued such obnoxious behaviour and Steve would make that clear as day, he knew from personal experience. Before the boy had calmed down, though, the team made up of three human men rode out before him and Bucky could see Steve losing patience in the face of such petulance. Finally, Stark and his friend departed hastily and Steve spotted Bucky.

“Well done,” Bucky mocked when Steve came closer. His friend only rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for your help, jerk.”

“I thought i’d let you have your fun before we leave. You know, to get it out of your system.” He grinned slightly.

“Shut up, I know you would have done the same. Only with more insults.” Steve sighed and pinched his nose. It was true but Bucky didn’t have to admit that. So he only shrugged.

“What’s the status?” he asked. He had waited for the courtyard to empty until he’d try to get some food and saddle Alpine but knowing Steve, the man had already been ready for some time.

“I have seen Romanoff and Wilson saddle their horses but that’s about it. I don’t think we’ll leave in less than an hour.” Bucky could see Steve’s impatience in the corner of his mouth. He ignored it. They had all agreed to leave late, after all. He finished the rest of his apple.

“Can you fill up my supplies as well?” Before Steve could answer, Bucky turned and headed to the stables. “So we can leave earlier!” he yelled over his shoulder and almost laughed when he saw Steve’s mulish face. On his way across the courtyard, he spotted Barton and Romanoff in front of a stand selling coats and blinked. What did they need coats for, this early in the season? He certainly didn’t have one but he knew the climate around here. He’d be fine.

The stables were only dimly lit but Bucky had not problem spotting Steve’s Nomad, already saddled and ready for departure, and only because Steve would hate it, he snuck him a treat. Alpine was still in her box and it didn’t take Bucky long to get her ready and lead her and Nomad outside. He bound them to a wooden fence and went to look for Steve.

Who was apparently chatting with Wilson like old friends. He didn’t really have anything against the man but the other witcher just seemed to rub him the wrong way. With a raised eyebrow, he joined their conversation. Or interrupted it. Whatever.

“Steve, I’m done. My food?” Steve passed him a bag filled with apples, bread, dried meat and several other supplies. “Aw, you know me.”

With a sharp look at Sam, he asked, “Where are your friends?” Sam only stared back coldly, until someone cleaned their throat from behind Bucky.

He whirled around and came face to chin with Barton, the other Griffin, and The Widow. Underneath the shock that they had both managed to thwart his ears and sneak up on him, he noticed that uncertain feeling again, the one he’d first felt when watching Clint with the bay from before. He didn’t like it. Barton grinned down at him and Bucky glared. He wanted to wipe that smug grin away with his fist, so he growled in warning and Barton blinked, taken aback.

“Looks like we’re all here then!” Steve announced hastily before Bucky could do anything to escalate the situation even further. A little embarrassed, the brunet stepped back. “Ready to go?” Steve tried to fill his voice with enthusiasm but the atmosphere had already tipped into uncomfortable.

At last, Romanoff nodded at Steve. “We have everything we need.”

Outside the keep, they ignored the fresh tracks on the road leading north and headed north east, a direction that would lead them into the mountains more quickly than their competition, hopefully. Witchers knew the wilderness better than any lord could and they followed the deer paths north east and away from the busy, albeit well kept roads. After midday, they let the horses canter while they still could, before the foliage would be too thick to travel fast, and Bucky enjoyed the feeling of Alpine stretching under him. He knew she loved running and she loved being close to so many other horses. She didn’t seem to be alone in her elation, as he saw Wilson and Barton’s geldings exchange friendly nips while running, spurning each other on. Their riders only reined them back when Wilson’s horse started bucking slightly and Barton laughed so loud, Bucky could hear birds scatter in alarm. It almost made him smile himself, especially when destiny punished Barton for laughing at his friend by having him miss a branch in their way that ended up smacking him square in the face.

A little while later, after the horses had some time to cool down, they rested near a small, clean stream. Bucky heaved himself out of the saddle, stretching out his stiff legs. No matter how much one travelled on horseback, one never got completely used to it. He grabbed Alpine and Nomad, loosened their girths and led them to water while Steve pulled their food out of their saddlebags. Bucky left the horses to drink and graze while he joined his friend in standing around and shaking out legs. Steve offered a few bits of dry meat and Bucky nodded in thanks. He turned around and assessed their situation. They’d already made good way in just a few hours. He seriously doubted that any of the other groups had made it as far as them. Or well. Maybe the Marauders had. From what Bucky had heard of them, they weren’t much better than animals and spent much of their time in the woods waiting for defenceless travellers, so they might be used to travelling off road.

After a few bites, he noticed that the others had joined them in their and were now eating lunch as well. Steve and Wilson had already started to chat happily and Bucky rolled his eyes. He could grow three centuries old and still not understand how Steve managed to make friends so fast. When he looked up again, the Widow had joined in their conversation but Barton was studying him curiously and that strange feeling from before came back with a vengeance. He raised a challenging eyebrow and Barton smiled.

“What’s with the arm?” he asked nonchalantly and took a bite from his bread. Bucky tensed. Normally, people didn’t really notice that his left arm was different and when they did, they stayed quiet. Barton must very brave, or just one hell of an idiot.

“What do you care?” he hissed. Barton only shrugged.

“Just curious.” A few seconds ticked by in which they both pretended to listen to the others’ conversation. Then, Clint spoke up again. “You can call me Clint if you wanna.”

Bucky glared at him. “Well, I don’t _wanna_.” For a second, he thought he saw hurt flicker in Barton’s blue eyes but it was gone before he could form a thought and Barton shrugged without replying. It was only then that Bucky noticed that the conversation next to him had come to a halt and he looked into Steve’s worried eyes. The others had their’s on Barton.

“Seems like we’re all finished,” Bucky growled and stomped away with Steve on his heels. When they reached their horses, Steve grabbed his arm.

“Bucky, what’s wrong? Why are you so awful to him?” he whispered. Bucky jerked his arm out of his friend’s grip.

“No reason.” he grunted. He turned and pulled Alpine away from the water into some free space to check her girth and mount. Then, he turned her to the north east and spurred her on. She complied, albeit a little disgruntled. He led her into a quick walk and listened for the sounds of his party following. Maybe if he stayed at the front, no one would come and try to talk to him.

The sun had almost set completely by the time Steve finally called it a day and they decided to set up camp near a lake they would have to round later on. He groaned. His legs felt about as stiff as trees and almost buckled when he slumped out of the saddle. While he was used to travelling a lot, he wasn’t used to riding all day long; he didn’t normally have anywhere to be and could take as many breaks as he wanted. Behind him, he could hear the rest of his group let out similar noises, some interspaced with more cursing than others. Again, he led Alpine to the water and when she snorted tiredly, he petted her neck.

“You and me both, girl.” With nimble fingers, he loosened her girth. She huffed, stretching out her chest and stomach and he chuckled. Her normally shiny white fur was dulled by dust, dry mud and bits of dead grass, so the first thing he did after quenching his thirst was pull out her fodder together with a thick brush.

Only when he had unsaddled her, cleaned her off and checked her hooves did he turn around to inspect their camp. Someone had started a fire in the middle and Steve had already put their bedrolls down. He could see the Widow and Wilson take care of their own horses but Barton was nowhere in sight, so he ambled over to Steve and lowered himself to stretch out next to the fire, the only light source left that wasn’t the stars.

“Clint said he’d be back with a couple rabbits soon,” Steve announced apropos of nothing and Bucky blinked.

“Okay,” he mumbled. Some meat that wasn’t dried and salty would be nice, he guessed. With a sigh, he loosed his hair-tie and lightly massaged his scalp.

“Yeah, and Natasha said we could make a stew or something,” his friend said in this nonchalant tone that Bucky had learned to automatically distrust.

“You on a first name basis with all of them, now?

“Yep,” was all he got back. A few seconds later, seemingly fed up with trying to be subtle, Steve turned around and sighed, “They are pretty nice, you know. You could at least try to return the favour.” Bucky snorted. He’s spent his whole life being lectured by Steve Rogers, now wouldn’t be the time to give in. He was immune anyway. Or, almost immune, maybe.

But he also knew that he had behaved like the asshole he not so secretly was and he could really stand to at least be civil with them. He had to spent the next fortnight with them at minimum, after all. So he rolled unto his back and put his hands behind his head. “Sure, Stevie, I’ll be nicer.” He yawned and Steve hummed, apparently pleased. For now, at least.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team is making good time but the night bears surprises and a first hurdle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while since I last updated and I’m sorry. However, now I have all the time in the world because my last exam is over and done with. Enjoy!

It was with a sore backside and stiff joints that Clint pulled himself out of Lucky’s saddle on the fourth day of their travel. They were all confident in their belief they were ahead of their competitors, so for today, they had decided to take an extended lunch break, for their own benefit, as well as for their horses'. Soon, they would encounter rougher terrain that would make speedy travel difficult but until then they would use their horses' stamina fully. Hence, the extended break today.

His muscles hurt, his thighs were surely bruised and his hands were stiff and cold from gripping the rains all day long. And of course, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, blowing icy winds and storm clouds over the sky. With a sigh, he tried leaning against Lucky. His normally gentle friend, though, only shouldered him out of the way after having spotted a particularly juicy looking patch of grass.

“Yeah, alright, I get it,” he said and followed to loosen the girth, which would make eating for Lucky a thousand times more comfortable. While crossing the clearing, they walked past Barnes and his white mare. Barnes, who had been busy with his horse’s hooves, looked up at Lucky and did a double take. Clint knew that the disfigured sight of the left side of Lucky’s face was disturbing to some but out of all people, a witcher should be above being appalled by scars. With a glare, he moved between Barnes and his horse. That man didn’t need, nor seemed to want his get along with him. He had tried after all, often and obvious enough to make Sam throw him a pitying look and Natasha give him another one of her talks about where to lay his affections. As if he hadn’t known just how spectacularly his efforts to befriend Barnes had failed.

He hadn’t tried to engage with the other again. If the guy wanted to spend his life being an asshole, after all, Clint wouldn’t be the one to convince him otherwise. No face was pretty enough to make up for such behaviour.

A breeze rustled through the trees and for a moment, he was glad he’d bought a thick winter coat before their departure. He wasn’t used to spending his winters in this climate and he wasn’t looking forward to it either.

When he returned to the middle of the clearing where they had planned to rest, Steve was spread out on his back and staring into the cloudy sky. He joined him and Steve turned his head.

“Hey, Clint.” Clint grunted. They’d become casual friends over the last few days. Though not like Sam and Steve who had taken to each other like a bonfire and the woods in midsummer.

“Can you get a few rabbits for dinner tonight? I’d like to eat something that isn’t stale bread for once,” Steve mumbled. Somehow, in only a couple of days, Steve had become the unofficial leader of their little group. Had it been any other man, Clint’s antiauthoritarian streak would probably have made him raise a fuss, but Steve just exuded so much earnestness that Clint couldn’t find it in himself to fight him. At least most of the time. He had to keep him on his toes, after all.

Clint stretched his sore muscles. “Can do, as long as you convince the sky to keep its water in until at least tomorrow morning.” They hadn’t had anything warm to eat lately, because for two days now, it had always rained in the evening.

“Will do,” came the mumbled answer. When he looked over, the other’s eyes were closed and Clint grunted. Good idea. He was just about to join Steve in a short nap when Natasha plopped down next to him, a bag of baked potatoes in her hands. They were cold, but the best lunch Clint had had in awhile.

With a loud groan, Sam lowered himself to lay down on his side next to Natasha. “I can hardly feel my legs,” he complained. “I think my toes might have fallen off.” Clint rolled to look at him.

“Sam,” he said seriously, “let me help you. I will check your feet and in return, you will check my bum for bruises.” Sam snorted and threw a clump of dirt at him.

“Forget it. If you stick your scrawny, naked ass in my face I will put tinder between your toes tonight and light it.”

Clint ignored the threat and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Scrawny? In what world is my ass scrawny?” Clint was an inch taller than Sam and just a little less wide in the shoulders. Come to think of it, if he considered Steve's and Barnes’ shoulder width as well, he was actually the leaner man out of all of them.

“In the world we live in, Clint,” Natasha smirked, the traitor.

He huffed. “You simply have no taste in men, Sam.” Sam threw his head back and laughed.

“I really don’t,” he giggled. Before Clint could reply, a voice rudely interrupted.

“Are we done here?” Barnes growled. “Because I think the horses have rested enough.”

Clint turned his head and eyed him cooly. “Relax, Scowly. We can’t all survive on rage alone.”

Barnes eyes narrowed but before he could retort, Steve sat up and stretched as if nothing had happened. “Just a few more minutes, Buck.” Clint met Natasha’s eyes and she gave him her well used ‘be careful’ look. He knew he shouldn’t start fights inside their team but Barnes had practically asked for it. Huffing, he rolled to his side so his back was to Barnes.

  
  


The ground’s trembling shook Clint out of an exhausted sleep and he bolted upright, silver sword in his hand. In the darkness, he could see Steve extinguishing their fire with a snap of his fingers, Natasha standing in the middle of the clearing, her sword in her hand and her head tilted. When she saw Clint, she put her finger to her lips and he pressed his lips together. He could ask questions later.

He startled when someone touched his shoulder, but it was just Sam who leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Natasha heard something during her watch.” Clint nodded and stood up, listening intently. It took a few seconds, his ears really weren’t the best, but finally, he heard it. Scrabbling, thumping, growls, and, above all else, human voices. There was a fight happening, not far away. He looked up and cursed. During the night, the sky had been hidden behind thick clouds, but those had dissipated and left behind a blindingly white full moon.

Natasha turned around. “Someone got attacked.” Clint nodded. He knew they had to help, it was their duty. Hastily, he slipped into his boots and jerkin, grabbed his silver sword and bow and quiver. He whistled for Lucky who came immediately. Looked like he’d freed himself again. Clint snorted. Next to him, Natasha slipped onto Liho’s bare back and he could see the rest of their group do the same.

“We’ll leave everything here and return later,” Steve said and spurred his horse into a gallop. They followed, moving quickly towards the sound. Inwardly, Clint cursed. He had forgotten to pull on his gauntlets, so he may walk away from this fight with broken fingers if he was unlucky. But well. This wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time that had happened to him.

Lucky jumped over a boulder and Clint shifted his weight minutely, perfectly balanced. Bareback riding used to be one of his favourite past times after he’d learned to ride with a saddle and was looking for a challenge. The wind blew past his ears and he couldn’t make out any sounds anymore, trusting Steve to lead them in the right direction until they broke through the trees and entered a tiny clearing someone must have deemed safe enough to set up camp in and had been ultimately proven wrong. His medallion was tugging madly on its chain.

Clint had no problem seeing in the shadowy night but the two standing in the middle, their backs to each other and heads wildly swinging around, seemed to have no such luck. They whirled around when the witchers burst into the clearing, relief clear on their faces.

Their swords lowered and Steve snapped, “Keep your guard up!” But it was too late. A shape hurled itself at the two men from behind a tree. Before it made contact however, an arrow pierced its eye, sending it back into the bushes with a howl. Bow still in hand, Clint slid off Lucky and sent him back the way they had come from with a clap on his flank, confident the werewolves would be too focused on them to pay any mind to their horses.

He strode over to the unknown men and only realised upon coming closer that they weren’t all that unknown. Before him stood Sir Rhodes, a trembling young Stark by his side with blood streaking their shirts.

“How many?” He demanded. He could smell more than three werewolves but the smells were so mixed that he couldn’t make out a definite number. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of his team.

“More than five, I think,” Stark answered in a small voice. Clint felt pity for the boy. This must have been his first outing into the wild and from the looks of it, it had gone badly. The team spread out, taking the younger men into their midst and raising their weapons. Clint turned around as well, arrow knocked and eyes on the dark forest in front of him, looking for movement. He could hear the beasts rustling through the foliage all around them.

“Are you hurt?” came Sam’s voice from behind his back.

“Just a few scratches,” Rhodes replied firmly.

Next to him, Natasha raised her voice. “You managed to stumble upon a whole pack; congratulations, boys.” They snorted. Then finally, Clint saw a shadow move between the trees and lightning fast, he drew and fired. An enraged shriek confirmed that he’d hit his mark dead on.

“If you can’t kill them, at least don’t make them angry,” Steve hissed from beside him. Clint only grinned viciously.

“But angry is how I want them.” As if on cue, another shape jumped out of the protection of the forest, straight at him with an arrow sticking out of its side. He drew the sword with his right hand, the bow still in his left and swung the blade in a neat circle. He had long ago realised that many monsters, werewolves especially, became easy targets when enraged and this time was no exception.

The werewolf’s head was cleanly severed from its shoulders, the blood spraying into Clint’s face and he sidestepped to dodge the rest of the body, which was still in mid-flight. He heard an ‘oomph’ behind him and grimaced. Oops. He had forgotten that he wasn’t alone anymore and that right this second, there were people taking shelter behind his back.

He turned his head and threw back a rueful “Sorry” but was interrupted by an eruption of sound. All around them, the werewolves had started to howl, marking their fury at their pack mate’s death.

“Looks like you got what you wanted,” he heard Barnes growl but before he could bite back, three, five, seven more beasts streamed into the clearing. With a curse, he put his bow on his back and swung his sword again but to no avail. Instead of hurling themselves at the witchers, the werewolves jumped, snapped their teeth and dove back before a blade touched them.  _ No way bitten ones could be this strategic _ , he thought. Werewolves had to be sired by a werewolf parent to retain their consciousness during their transformation. At least some of them had to be, or else the rest of the pack wouldn’t comply.

The sound of running paws to his left snapped his head around and he narrowly dodged a snapping jaw as well as the shiny, wet teeth inside. Before he could regain his footing, another jumped him from the right but before that one connected, Clint formed a sign with the hand not holding his sword and a shockwave threw it back a few steps. Another sign and fire burst from his palm, sending the stench of burned fur and flesh into the air. Before the werewolf could recover, Clint stepped forwards and sunk his sword in its chest.

When he turned around, he found that he hadn’t been the only one to use their special form of magic. Someone had thrown down an Yrden circle to protect their charges so the witchers could leave the ring to fight more independently. As he watched, one werewolf snuck up and tried to pounce on Stark but only managed to bounce off an invisible barrier. Clint nodded approvingly. Solid magic, probably Sam’s work.

A snarl from behind him and he whirled around in time to see a werewolf, the biggest yet, stand up on his hind legs and spread his arm with a growl, fangs and claws glinting in the moonlight. He raised his sword and stared the monster dead in the eyes. Finally, it dove forward and Clint ducked a claw swipe, swinging his sword. With a sickening sound, the arm was severed from its owner. The werewolf screamed shrilly but didn’t let up. It jumped forward again, its jaws opened wide and Clint danced to the side, let the werewolf run past him and sliced its spine with one heavy blow. It fell to the ground with a thump and Clint didn’t waste any time in finishing it with another sword thrust.

He flicked blood off his blade and looked around. Only one more werewolf was still standing, its pack mate’s bodies’ littering the ground. In its desperation, it ran at Steve without finesse or skill. Steve only raised his round shield, an unusual weapon for a witcher, and rammed it into the monster’s chest. Clint heard it’s breastbone shatter and gave a low whistle. That man could really pack a punch. Or a shield.

“Oh, shit,” the Stark boy panted.”You people are amazing. I didn’t think I’d survive the night.” His friend nodded. Clint only snorted and went to collect his arrows. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, that’s how easy it had been. In Skellige, he had encountered werewolves so strong that even gutted and dismembered, they proved life threatening. These here had never encountered a prey that could fight back.  _ But they weren’t stupid _ , he thought while examining a scratch on his upper arm he couldn’t even remember getting. Well, he could worry about that later.

“Hey, quick question!” He whirled around to face Rhodes and Stark. “Were you following us?” Steve stepped closer with a frown on his face and he could hear someone scoff behind his back, but he didn’t turn around to find out who it was. He had his suspicions anyway.

Stark reddened. “Well, we thought you guys knew where you were going, so we made a plan to follow you once you left Drakenborg.” Rhodes snorted.

“We planned nothing.” Rhodes ignored his friend’s hiss and continued. “We got lost as soon as we left the keep and when we had finally made it back to the castle, we saw you disappear into the woods. So we followed.” He shrugged and Clint had to admire his guts. Didn’t make them any less stupid in his eyes, though.

Steve sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Travellers usually keep to the roads for two reasons. One, it’s generally faster than travelling through the forest and two, it is much, much safer.” He put his hands on his hips and leaned in like a father scolding his children. “We chose the woods because we can defend ourselves.” The two shrunk under his disapproving eyes and Clint exchanged a look with Sam. He had to stifle a giggle.

“Where are your horses?” Natasha butted in, ignoring Steve entirely and Clint almost burst out laughing.

“Ran away.” They turned to her, relieved at having been saved from Steve’s disapproval.

“Alright. Natasha and Bucky, you will go find them. You two,” he pointed at Rhodes and Stark, “will pack up your camp and as soon as they return with your horses, we will all head to our own.” They nodded and without another word, Barnes and Nat slid into the forest, Natasha disappearing completely in her dark armour. Clint himself turned, whistled sharply and a few moments later, Lucky came trodding back into the clearing. By now, his gelding was so used to the recurring violent altercations and the stench of blood, he was hard to faze. Lucky just stepped over the dead bodies and came closer with a gentle knicker. Clint raised his hand to pet him, but he recoiled when he saw the blood coating his hands. He remembered the forgotten gauntlets and sighed in relief when he realised that he had managed to keep his fingers intact. The night air had cooled the blood rapidly, though, and now his fingers were trembling from the cold.

“Hey, Lucky,” he greeted his friend instead and kneeled down to wipe his hands on the gras. Which was just as bloody. He sighed and resigned himself to having to find some freezing water to clean himself. Looking around, all of them could use some cleaning, but that had to wait.

“Did you get injured, Clint?” Sam had stepped closer while Clint had been thinking.

He shrugged. “Just a scratch, really.”

“Let me look at it.”

“Here.” He turned and showed Sam the gash in his upper arm. Sam had specialised in healing at their School. While Clint himself had always been helpless at anything but signs, the School of The Griffin had a fair few witchers who were quite adept at at least one form of magic; whether it was healing, combat or mundane. Sam, as far as he knew, was good at several.

With a light touch, Sam traced his palm over the wound and when he drew away, the gash had turned into a fresh red scar that would undoubtedly disappear during the next few days. Clint grinned. “Thanks, my friend.” Sam only grinned back, winked and left to tend to a nasty looking scratch in Rhodes thigh.

A few moments ticked by in which Clint tried to ignore the smell of blood cloying his nose and mouth and eventually, Barnes and Natasha returned, two bay mares following behind them. He sighed, relieved. He didn’t mind the fight, nor did he mind the death. But having to remain at a fight scene made him twitchy. The blood could lure in any kind of predator, after all. Swiftly, they saddled Rhodes and Stark’s horses, helped them onto their backs and mounted their own steeds. Then, without another word, they returned to their camp.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is over, the werewolves are dead and our competitors had to leave before the blood lured in something even more dangerous. After riding through the rest of the night and most of the day, the team finally rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, but with everything going on, I was a little distracted. At least now, I have all the free time I could wish for and nothing to do to fill it. Hope you enjoy!

Staying in the area after such a bloodbath would have been a monumentally stupid idea, so they returned to camp for only as long as it took to pack their belongings and strike all trace of their presence. Then they made their exit as swift as possible, riding until long after the sun rose.

Looking at his team’s faces, Bucky could see the exhaustion weighing them down but they stubbornly persisted. The two young men, Rhodes and Stark, seemed especially drained. Out of all of them, they had received the worst injuries and they weren’t witchers who could go days before having to rest properly. He almost felt pity for them but he still wanted to curse them out for being so careless in the first place. 

It was long after noon when Steve finally called for a stop. “We’ll set up camp here.” Bucky looked around. The terrain had gotten a lot more rocky and the trees were thinning. They had halted at a small river in which the clearest mountain water Bucky had seen in a long time ran. 

He watched as Barton jumped off his horse with a shout and dove towards the water. Clearly, it had been his intention to wash the grime off his hands but instead he slipped on the muddy ground and went headfirst into the cold. Wilson put his head in his hands.

Bucky blinked. He hadn’t expected that. He blinked again and finally, Barton’s head broke the surface with much sputtering. He gave them a sheepish look and shrugged. “Well, it’s one way to get clean.” Bucky wanted to smack him but he settled for shaking his head in astonishment. Barton seemed to have caught his movement because in the next instant, he was glaring over at Bucky. 

He blinked again. Bucky hadn’t thought Barton to be the kind to hold a grudge but here they were. He had stopped being an absolute ass around the team days ago but Barton seemed to have taken his earlier outbursts personally. Which they kind of had been but… well. And now he kept going out of his way to annoy Bucky at every possible opportunity. He’d lost count of how many times he’d almost pulled a knife on the other man.

He slipped off Alpine much more gracefully than Barton had and handed her to Steve. He stretched. God, he was sore. And he smelled. They all did. Grime and sweat and blood mixed on their skin to create an unholy alliance of revolting stench. 

“I think we could all do with a bath,” he heard Romanoff say and looked over. She was side eyeing them disdainfully. “But first, we set up camp and get some food started.” It didn’t take long for them to finish, given that after a couple of days a certain routine had formed. Afterwards, based on the sun’s position in the sky, they still had a few hours before darkness.

“You sure you wanna stay here?” Bucky asked Steve, who had volunteered to cook while the rest of them cleaned up. 

“It’s fine, Bucky, I’ll just bath later.”

“Not much later, if you can,” Bucky grimaced, “you smell a little ripe, pal.” Steve threw him a dirty look and shooed him off. 

Bucky turned around and hesitated. This was… almost daunting. He didn’t really like exposing himself to other people’s eyes, no matter how long he’d known them. And now, stripping and bathing with a handful of strangers wasn’t exactly easy. The others didn’t seem to have the same hang-up, considering the scene in front of him. Barton had already divested himself of his clothes and dove back into the water while Stark followed with similar enthusiasm. He swallowed. That was a lot of naked skin at once and he had to tear his eyes away lest Barton noticed him staring. 

Shit, this wasn’t easy. He hated, hated travelling in big groups in which everyone always saw everything of its other members. Since they had started their journey, he’d been using the cover of trees and boulders to change his clothes or had opted to keep them on for longer than was comfortable. Because he really, really didn’t like this. He didn’t want to see other people’s naked bodies and he didn’t want other people to see his, for fuck’s sake. Primarily, he didn’t want anyone to see where the metal of his arm connected with his flesh; it could make even the most battle-hardened warrior blanch. 

It had taken Steve years to get used to it. To the arm, the scars, but most of all, to him. To Bucky. The way he was now. And to how he would never be anything else. 

Trying to swallow his self-consciousness, he started unstrapping the plates of his armour. He really didn’t want to be the last to get in. While his fingers worked, he watched as Wilson and Barton started fooling around in the water, laughing and splashing around. When he dipped his own toes into the river, he flinched. Colder than he had expected. 

“What, Barnes, is it too cold for you?” Barton called with a smirk. Bucky bared his teeth at him but Barton only slicked his wet hair back with a smirk, the water glistening on his skin, his blue eyes flashing. There was that feeling again, the one Bucky didn’t really want to look at too closely and kept trying his best to ignore, unsuccessfully. He didn’t like feeling that unbalanced and frankly, it pissed him off. With a quiet hiss, he lowered himself into the river, careful of the slippery ground.

He didn’t think anyone had paid any mind to him yet, aside from Barton maybe, and he wanted to keep it that way. There was a bend in the small river, covered behind leafless yet thick vegetation, and outwardly calm and relaxed, his shoulders below the water, he made his way over and hid behind the reed. 

He could feel the crusted sweat on his skin slowly wash off in the current and he felt infinitely better for it. The others around him started messing around, splashing water at each other, but he was content to just stay back and enjoy the bath. Only when he started shivering from the cold did he move. He dove into the clear water and felt his lungs seize when the icy river enveloped him completely. He wasn’t frail in any sense of the word, but it _was_ late autumn. 

He resurfaced and gasped, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes. He looked up and caught Barton’s eyes staring at him intently from meters away. Glaring right back, he wasn’t in the mood for any more not so friendly encounters. Instead, he busied himself with scrubbing his skin and hair thoroughly. The bath would have to last a while, after all. 

He was hyper aware of the other man’s presence, now more than ever. He refused to acknowledge what that said about him. Keeping his eyes firmly downward and on himself, he ignored the noises coming from only a few meters away and refused to look up. He could distinctly make out Stark’s excited yell, Rhodes’ curses and what sounded like Romanoff’s voice giving a low warning. The corner of his mouth twitched up. Someone had to be phenomenally thickheaded to even think about pulling her into their games. Every time he could make out Barton’s voice above the other’s, his heart thudded in his chest and with a low curse, he fully sank into the water, scrubbing his hair. 

It was only when Steve called them for dinner that they left the river to dry off and get dressed, their lips blue and limbs trembling. Bucky crouched down by the fire, his now damp blanket wrapped around him. He’d have to dry it before the night, he remembered with a sigh. Shivering, he took his bowl of stew with a thankful nod and dug right in. He felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week and considering the sounds from around the fire, he wasn’t the only one feeling that way. When he raised his head, he saw the trio of witchers they had met at Drakenborg tightly clustered together, sharing warmth, and he felt a strange pang of longing. Steve was pressed to his side, though, and he didn’t need anyone but Steve.

After the meal and finally being dry again, Bucky pulled the last of his clean clothes out of his saddlebags and got dressed. He’d have to wash his laundry soon. His armour too, if he didn’t want it to stink like a striga on a warm Sunday afternoon. A rag and a bit of water would have to do for now. 

Back at the campfire, he sat down with his dirty jerkin and shoulder plates in his lap and started cleaning, listening to the conversation around him. 

“We could follow the river for a few days, stay on more even ground and catch some fish for our meals.” He heard Wilson say. Next to him, Romanoff raised her voice.

“That would mean losing a day or two before the Giant’s lair. And we’re already slowed down by our newcomers here.” When Bucky raised his eyes from his work to see their reaction, Stark opened his mouth to protest, but Rhodes only grimaced. Romanoff cut Stark off. “Your horses are not used to long travel, we will have to slow down so you don’t ride them to death.” She did have a point there. Rhodes’ horse was a typical knight’s steed. Heavy set, wide in the chest and robust, made to knock down and trample an enemy’s footmen. Stark’s horse was different in every way. Light, graceful and pretty, bred to compete in prestigious races and look good while doing so, but unsuited for the fight. A witcher’s horse had shared all it’s owner’s experiences; the rough travel, sleeping in less than stellar places and, last but not least, being attacked by monsters so bloodthirsty and frightening, a lesser horse would run off and never be seen again; if it survived the encounter at all. 

“We should follow the river until midday tomorrow,” Steve butted in. “We can rest and fish but afterwards, we’ll cross over into rougher terrain and head straight for the mountains.” He could see the team nod in acceptance, all except Barton. The man was studying Steve and it raised Bucky’s hackles. Steve knew what he was doing; was probably way more experienced than a witcher whose name Bucky had never even heard of before this whole ordeal had started. Barton’s eyes flitted to Bucky’s and he put all his thoughts on the matter into his glare, daring him to speak up and criticise his friend right in front of him. But Barton only glared right back, eyebrows moving into a frown and body tensing from where he was sprawled out in front of the fire. Then, he averted his eyes with a clenched jaw and Bucky had to suppress a grim smile. He’d take the victory.

  
  


It didn’t take long for their sleepless night to catch up to them. Once fed and warm, Bucky spotted more than one of them try and fail to keep from yawning. Stark and Rhodes had already nodded off. He elbowed Steve. “Time to wash up.”

Steve only grunted, his eyes drooping. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he mumbled, head on his fist. Bucky snorted.

“You are not sleeping anywhere near me if you don’t get up and bathe right now, Steven.” Another elbow jab and Steve got up with a grunt. Bucky himself used the spot he vacated to lie down and stretch languorously. He sighed, his head resting on his metal hand. When he opened his eyes again, he spotted another pair of eyes watching him. Watching the metal arm, to be more exact. Uncomfortable, he sat up again and turned his body so the uncovered hand stopped catching the firelight. Barton blinked and met his eyes for a second. Then he looked away as if nothing had happened. Again.

Bucky had long since stopped feeling insecure about the presence of his metal arm but having people stare at it still made him go all tense and defensive. He didn’t avert his eyes, though, just kept watching as Barton picked up an apple and started a conversation with Wilson. 

He tensed when a large shadow moved behind the other man, getting closer. Before he could open his mouth to warn the others, it stepped into the light.

“Aw, Lucky, no!” Barton yelled, having lost his apple to his own horse. Which was now, of course, munching happily and dripping apple juice all over Barton. “Lucky, where the hell is your halter?” Its owner asked exasperatedly. The gelding only nickered and started nosing at Barton’s ear.

“Get off you big baby!” the man exclaimed. Startled out of his slumber. Stark started to snicker and Wilson joined in. “There are no treats left, you ate them all.” Barton jumped up to try and shove the animal away and back to where the rest of the horses clustered but Lucky didn’t seem to get the hint and only nibbled on Barton’s jacket. Laughter broke out around the campfire and even Bucky allowed himself a small smile. He didn’t remember ever seeing a man so weak to his horse’s whims. 

Grumbling, Barton bodily shoved Lucky away from them, towards the trees where he belonged and the pale horse eventually complied. Huffing, Barton flopped down onto his bedroll again. Bucky thought about Alpine. His mare was usually more compliant, though he feared her temper. He had seen Lucky rip the blankets off Clint only two days ago, after all, so he really didn’t think he could compare the two.

“Where did you get that horse, by the way?” Rhodes asked, clearly amused. Wilson‘s shoulders were still shaking in mirth and even Romanoff seemed to have lost some of her usually cool exterior. 

“Aw, man,” Clint mumbled and scratched the back of his neck. Bucky hurriedly averted his eyes before Barton could catch him looking again. 

“Well, I ran across a group of rebels down in Sodden a couple years ago,” Barton’s voice was soft and sunk deeper into memory with every word. “They’d had it rough, you know. War, poverty, sickness. Not a nice place to be, Sodden was.” Bucky closed his eyes. He could remember Sodden, the state it had been in during its war with Nilfgaard, could picture the landscape, the people in his head. He drifted. “And those people, they stole what they could from the Nilfgaardian Army. Food, weapons, medicine. Even horses. And when I met them, they had just stolen the biggest, friendliest, gentlest horse you could ever imagine. Thoroughly unsuited for riding into battle. Because Lucky here, he’d rather run off a cliff than hurt a human. At least that’s what they told me.” Bucky can hear the wistful sound to Barton’s voice and realised that he must not be the only one completely drawn into the story. It had gone dead silent around the fire, the night only disturbed by the quietly gurgling water.

Clint continued. “I had already made friends with that impossible horse by the time the Nilfgaardians retaliated. They invaded the camp by night and while I was still trying to get my bearings, Lucky tore himself loose, kicked the nearest black clad in the face and just-” he chuckled, “-just proved everyone wrong, I guess.” Bucky opened his eyes when Clint didn’t continue with his tale. The blond was staring into the flames, lost in his memories. 

“And the black clads couldn’t actually let a horse trample them into surrender so they struck him down before I got there.” Bucky tried to imagine watching someone hurt Alpine and he clenched his jaw. Damn, but he loved the gentle mare and losing her would probably kill him as well as her attackers. “We managed to drive the Nilfgaardians off eventually but by that time Lucky was in bad shape. Bad enough that he couldn’t move or get up or run anymore.” Bucky could almost hear the lump in Clint’s throat and he watched as Natasha shifted to press herself against his shoulder. His stomach rolled. “And I really, really didn’t want to let him die so I stayed with him, bandaged his wounds and paid good money for a healer to restore him to full health.” Barton turned around and called towards the tree line, “Not that Lucky ever bothered to pay me back, instead he just eats me out of house and home!” There was an answering whicker and the tension broke. The team laughed and Bucky almost joined in before he remembered that he wasn’t part of the conversation.

“What house and what home, Clint?” Steve asked and Barton pointed his finger at him.

“See! That just proves my point!” he exclaimed and threw his arms up. “I could own an estate in Toussaint by now if only Lucky wasn’t so greedy!” They broke into laughter again and Bucky laid back down with a smile. He turned his head to watch the team. Barton and Romanoff were still pressed together, Sam on his side next to them with Stark and Rhodes not far away. His eyes caught on the two young men and his good mood soured. He hadn’t wanted to think about it but their joining concerned him. Like the rest of the team probably, he’d wanted five thousand crowns for risking his life and had had to resign himself to only a fifth of that. And now, there were two more who’d want a share of the prize and who could cost them the Giant’s head altogether if they slowed the team down or had to be protected later on. 

He sighed quietly. All he had wanted was a little bit of money and to not split up with Steve. It was the others who had insisted on them joining the competition, not Bucky, never Bucky. If he had had his way, they would be on their way to Aedirn now instead of riding at breakneck speed just to see a horror story come to life before their eyes. God, he was so tired. 

His eyes flitted back to Barton and Romanoff, still pressed together. He felt envious and wasn’t sure why. Ever since his return to the Northern Kingdoms, he’s had a problem with people seeing and touching him, with people getting too close. Steve was the only one Bucky could let loose around and up until now, he’d been completely fine with it. People didn’t like to touch him and he didn’t like to touch people, so there had never been much grief about the situation. But watching the other two witchers sit so close made something inside him move and shift. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to suddenly start feeling again, for Melitele’s sake. Best to nip that in the butt. 

Alone was good. Alone meant he didn’t have to worry about people he couldn’t protect. He had Steve, someone he mostly didn’t have to worry about and needing someone else would only result in pain, he was sure. He closed his eyes again.

Around him, the conversation had shifted and turned into good natured mockery. “You wish you’d be that good,” Wilson laughed, “who’d pay you that much money for pest control?”

“Oh, you know,” Barton answered suggestively, “there was this really rich widow in Vizima who wanted to pay me five hundred crowns for killing the rats in her basement.” 

“Did you do it?” Stark asked eagerly.

“I sure did! A horde of rats is nothing against a nice little Devil’s Puffball.” Bucky snorted quietly. Only a complete moron would let a poisonous cloud of gas loose in a fucking basement. 

“Oh, hell,” Steve mumbled next to him.

“Did you at least tell everyone to vacate the house?” Wilson was incredulous. Which was fair. 

There was a sound and Bucky opened his eyes to see Barton scratch the back of his head in embarrassment. “Well, no.” The others groaned. “But I was careful! No one was hurt,” he insisted. “I know what I’m doing.” Bucky snorted again, this time louder. 

As annoying as he found Barton, Bucky knew the man wasn’t inept. During the fight with the werewolves, the Griffin had displayed a level of skill and sheer guts he hadn’t seen in what felt like decades. Barton had weaved through the fight, had shown inventiveness with weapons and magic alike and had killed more monsters than any of the rest of them, even Bucky. So he knew that the man was good. Even using a Devil’s Puffball to kill vermin was something most witchers didn’t even think of even if it was the most efficient option available.

The camp had gone silent around him and he refocused on the present. Every single one of his team mates was looking at him, some in confusion, some in open hostility. Barton’s shoulders had gone stiff, his jaw clenched and Bucky was confused. Then, he remembered.  _ Looks like that snort wasn’t as quiet as I thought.  _

The Black Widow was looking at him like he was a particularly bothersome cockroach and Bucky felt himself getting defensive. That wasn’t… he hadn’t meant it the way everyone assumed he had. He hadn’t tried to make fun of Barton, really. The opposite was true, in fact. But his mouth just wouldn’t open and he didn’t know how to fix it. He would have to apologise. He hadn’t apologised to anyone in a long time, the words just wouldn’t come to him and before Bucky could overcome his inhibitions, Barton spoke.

“Fuck off, Barnes,” the man spat and Bucky had to suppress a flinch. That wasn’t… That wasn’t what he had meant. Not at all. And still his mouth wouldn’t fucking move.

Before anyone could say anything, Barton shot to his feet, turned and left the pool of light, heading for the tree line behind him. No one spoke and Bucky was still frozen stiff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, I have finally managed to catch myself a beta reader, so you can all thank the lovely [ weepingnaiad ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) For the much improved state of this story. So here I am, with a nicely polished set of (was it 6?) chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To clear his head, Clint seeks solitude and stumbles over suspicious activities close by.

The stone sailed through the air with a whistle, hit the previously undisturbed water surface and disappeared. It didn’t make him feel any better. So he threw another, then another and another until he was grunting with the effort. He needed to sleep. He needed to relax. But foremost, he needed to stop thinking about Bucky fucking Barnes, the newly acquired bane of his existence. The next pebble created a plopping sound when it hit the water. Clint knew that this was a stupid thing to do, to wander around unknown woods in the dead of night, throwing stones into ponds that could very well house a monster or ten.

Yet, he didn’t care. He had no sword, no bow and no armour and if something was to attack him, he’d be easy prey. He picked up a bigger, heavier stone and threw it as far as he could and it sank with a satisfying splash. His chest heaved. Shit.

He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be made to feel like this and yet, here he was, having stormed away from his team to pout and pour over all his flaws like some angsty spoiled brat. He sighed. Damn, he hated Barnes. Or maybe he didn’t, going by his reaction to an arguably minor offence. But the guy was an asshole and not even one of the good, bearable kind. He was an asshole, he was condescending and had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t like them, could hardly stand them and would probably ditch them as soon as they caused him too much trouble. Especially Clint, for whatever reason. 

Clint had tried, he really had. He’d tried to befriend the gloomy, silent guy in a group because it had brought him Natasha once before but he should have fucking known. How could he have expected Bucky to take a liking to him when Clint hardly liked himself? He threw another stone. He’d known it. Had known that he wasn’t special, that he was just one of many witchers with the same abilities trying to survive in a world that hated them. He wasn’t as good at magic as Sam, not as deadly or as smart as Natasha, not as strong as Steve. He was mediocre through and through, with a few good and many bad qualities rolled into one person. He fucking knew. Barnes didn’t have to rub it in. _Bastard_.

He bent and groped for another stone but came up empty handed. Damn, he’d thrown them all, at least those closest to him. With a sigh, he straightened. He’d have to return to camp soon, lest Natasha decided to come looking for him. He’d have to talk to her then and there were few things he despised more than airing his feelings for the world to see. 

He looked up, stared at the clear night sky and revelled in the stars he found looking back. He’d always liked the night, the calm it brought, the calm he could only find after sunset. Sitting down between a larch’s roots with his back pressed to its trunk, he closed his eyes. He needed to relax and he couldn’t do that around the team, not when Barnes was there and Natasha would be throwing questioning looks at him. He sighed again and concentrated on his surroundings. 

There was an owl’s cry coming from several hundred meters to the north and the rustling of tiny feet in the undergrowth all around him. A tiny splash told him that a fish had just caught an insect in the pond and there was a flutter of wings coming from a bird he could not identify to the east. In the west, he could hear the patter of paws on the hard ground beneath and he focused on them. He tilted his head to better catch them and put his fingertips to the tattoo behind his right ear, letting a small tendril of magic flow into it. His hearing range increased and suddenly, he could hear the animal as if he was running right beside it. A fox, he guessed, on its nightly hunt. He felt his shoulders relax as he followed the canine through the woods, listened as it stopped, to smell the air maybe, and waited for it to resume its activities. 

Slowly and on light feet, so light Clint had to do his best to follow, the fox crept forward and Clint reached out to hear what it had in sight. He heard the quiet rustling of dry leaves. A rabbit, he guessed by the way it moved. The fox came closer and Clint was ready to pull back, not wanting to be present to hear the rabbit cry out when suddenly, all movement seized. He frowned, confused. Neither rabbit nor fox were moving. Then, they bolted at the same time, but not in the same direction. The rabbit leapt through the underbrush coming right towards Clint but the fox was sprinting north, away from the rabbit. It wasn’t on the chase. 

Curious as to what could have startled both animals into flight, he tilted his head again and reached out, fingers at his tattoo again. He had to increase his range even more, something he wasn’t completely comfortable with, given that it also increased the sounds coming from close to him. At this point, ignoring the now almost cacophonous noise around him had become hard and he scowled, concentrating harder. 

He reached and reached, could make out animals hundreds upon hundreds of meters west of him but it still took him a few minutes to find the source of the animal’s fear. When he did, he froze. Those were… human sounds? He cursed inwardly. They couldn’t afford another night like the last one. But the sounds he heard… He counted five, then ten footsteps, voices and snores and the soft sounds of horses. And what he was sure was the clink of armour. Soldiers. What the hell were they doing in the middle of nowhere? Who’d sent them, why were they here and most importantly, why were they so close?

He abruptly cut the magic flowing into his tattoo and shook his head to get his bearings in the sudden silence. Opening his eyes he stood up, head still turned to the west. He had to find answers. Looking around, he spotted a particularly tall fir tree, one taller than most around him and knew what he had to do. He divested himself of his coat and hurriedly strode to its trunk and jumped to catch a low-hanging, strong-looking branch. Conifers weren’t the easiest to climb but he had no other option. Confidently, he pulled his way further and further up the tree until the branches became thinner and thinner; and so did the foliage. He climbed as far as he could without fearing that the next branch he grabbed would give out and finally took the time to look around. The tree he had chosen must be the oldest around, because it stood taller than any other in the near vicinity and the view took his breath away. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this far up and a pang of sadness hit him full force.

Back in Kaer Seren, he’d done this a lot. Climbed cliffs, trees, the towers. All to be high up, to feel the wind on his face and his achievement in his muscles. But here, he couldn’t stay to reminisce. He had answers to find. 

He turned his face towards the west again, and this time, he focused his eyes. He’d never met anyone who could rival him in eyesight, not even a witcher, and he was proud of it. At first, he couldn’t see anything. He was looking for a campfire, a tiny flicker in the darkness. He knew that the men were there, hidden by the forest and finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, he saw it. A flicker. A troop of that size would either build a bigger fire or several smaller ones to keep warm and after he’d spotted the first, he found a second and third. So his hearing hadn’t betrayed him. There was a large group of soldiers too close for comfort and while he climbed down, he debated with himself about what he should do next. 

He had no weapons to fight with and no armour to protect him. Only his bare hands and a coat that barely managed to keep the chill out. Damn, he should have grabbed his swords when he’d stormed off. But then again, going to investigate alone was a monumentally stupid idea. At least if one wasn’t Natasha Romanoff.  _ Huh, there’s an idea _ , he thought with a head tilt. 

His mind made up, he grabbed his coat, turned and followed his own footprints back to the camp. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been away but when he came back, it was silent around the fire. He slowed his steps and approached carefully, not wanting to wake anyone up. He sighed when he saw that it was Natasha who’d taken over the first watch. Saved him quite some trouble. She raised her head when she heard him, a question in her dark eyes. He shook his head and stopped a few meters away from the others, beckoning her closer.

Warily, she rose from her bedroll and stepped around their sleeping comrades. “What’s wrong?” she asked, straight to the point, and he relaxed. He didn’t want to have to fend off any personal questions. 

“There is a troop of soldiers camping a few kilometres north-west of here,” he whispered into her ear. Nat’s head jerked back, her eyes boring into his. He stared back just as hard. He knew what he’d heard and seen.

Finally, she slumped. “Well, shit.” He suppressed a snort. Tiredly, her hand came up to rub at her temples and he grimaced. They’ve had enough trouble as it was, they really didn’t need to spend another night sleepless and on guard. 

He ignored his earlier musings, the exhaustion pulling at him and leaned back in again. “I can grab my gear and check it out, see if they are a threat.” But she shook her head.

“No, you stay here. Take over watch.” She sighed. “I have the best chance of not being spotted, so I’ll go.” He frowned, but nodded. He’d known how this would play out anyway.

He couldn’t stop himself, though. “You’re exhausted, just like the rest of us. Going now could be dangerous.”

“So could going later,” she whispered, “and I’ll bring my potions as a contingency plan.” He wanted to protest but the alternative would be going himself or waking up their group to consult. She was the better option stealth wise and waking their team members up would only rob them of another full night’s sleep for something that may be nothing. Or a lot and in that case, they’d all have to be as rested as possible.

Tersely, he nodded. “Alright.”

“If I’m not back in-“ she looked up at the night sky-“three hours, wake the others and tell them.” Before he could nod his affirmation, she turned and slunk back to her bedroll to go pick up one saddle bag as well as her swords. There was a clink of armour when she slung the bag over her shoulder.

Before she could disappear in the shadows however, he mumbled, “Be careful.” He got a nod in return. With slumped shoulders, he made his way over to the fire and his gear. He hated this, hated that he had to stay back and wait, hated how useless it made him feel. He sighed quietly and lowered himself onto his bedroll. 

The others were fast asleep and hadn’t even stirred since he’d come back.  _ Must be the exhaustion _ , he thought grimly, fighting back a yawn. Damn, he really wanted to be one of those sleeping assholes right about now but if he didn’t stay up to wait for Nat, no one would know what’d happened to her if she didn’t come back. And it would leave their camp undefended but he was willing to shrug that off in favour of focusing on the bigger problem at hand. 

He rubbed his eyes and cursed lowly. Now he only had himself and his thoughts for company, a state he tried to avoid at all times. And he couldn’t even go bother Lucky because it would probably wake the men up. He stared into the slowly dying embers. He couldn’t relax, damn it. Not when Nat was out there putting herself in danger for them, not when he was on the brink of sleep. 

He turned his head when he heard a quiet snuffle from his left side. Sam had borrowed deeper into his blanket, a frown on his face. Was he cold? He was one of the furthest away from the fire, had undoubtedly left the warmest spots to their human companions. Clint couldn’t have anyone waking up to see him now, couldn’t have anyone asking after Natasha, so he grabbed some of the fire wood they’d gathered earlier and gently put it on the fire. 

The embers flared and the sudden gust of warm air made him shudder; he hadn’t even realised how chilled he was. With a look up, he hummed soundlessly. Thick clouds had covered part of the night sky. They’d get snow, soon, pretty early in the season. He pulled his coat tighter.

However much he tried to think of trivial things, though, it didn’t take his thoughts long to circle back to his earlier troubles. Without his consent, his eyes caught on a lumpy shape slightly away from the campfire. He frowned for a second. Even though there was still space closer to the warmth, Barnes had chosen to keep a distance between himself and the rest of their group. Clint mentally shrugged. It was none of his business. 

Still, now that he had looked, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Barnes face was turned towards the light, his mouth slightly open. His slack features betrayed nothing of his perpetual scowl and Clint was foolishly thankful. He pulled his legs to his chest and slung his arms around them, still studying Barnes. In sleep and bathed in warm, flickering fire light, the man looked almost soft. And infuriatingly beautiful. Clint bit his lip.

He wasn’t allowed to notice this, he was pretty sure. Barnes had made it more than clear that he didn’t like Clint and noticing how good-looking he was would only lead to trouble. Even if they managed to get along before their quest was finished, Clint… Clint had ruined more than one good thing in his life by bringing feelings into it. Or sexual attraction for that matter, because he really couldn’t see himself falling for a guy he so absolutely didn’t get along with. 

With his eyes still on Barnes, his thoughts began to spiral. It wasn’t that Clint didn’t get along with Barnes. The reverse was true. And Clint, being the foolish romantic he was, had abundant experience with loving people, who would only end up throwing that love in his face. Or worse. The scar in his left shoulder ached and he pressed the heel of his hand to it with a sigh. He was over this. Over being constantly starved for attention because the person he needed it from was only interested in using him. His skills, his feelings, his company. 

He’d promised himself that he would never again be vulnerable in front of someone who would only exploit that vulnerability for their own sake. And Barnes seemed to be the kind who’d pounce at the slightest hint of weakness. 

His eyes kept searching Barnes' face but the man only continued his slow, even breathing. Then, he twitched. Clint shook his head and forced his thoughts back to the present. The other frowned and twitched again. Would he wake up? If he did, Clint would be in trouble. Out of all of them, he trusted Barnes to not raise a fuss about Nat’s absence the least.

But the man stilled and his features evened out eventually.  _ He’s probably cold _ , Clint thought. But he wasn’t able to do anything about that, couldn’t raise the fire even higher without either running out of fire wood or singing someone’s eyebrows. Normally, he’d feel like he should do something to help Barnes, give him his blanket or whatever, but the man hadn’t earned the privilege of having Clint worry about him yet. 

He put his chin on his knees and mused.  _ Is it weird that I’ve been staring at him for minutes now? _ It probably was. But there was no one awake to judge.

Hours later, he was jittery. Not just because Nat wasn’t back yet, but because he was constantly fighting his drooping eyelids. He was so damn tired. But he couldn’t do anything about it; couldn’t sleep and couldn’t pace around or talk to himself. He’d tried to count his team mate’s breaths but had soon realised that only made his exhaustion worse. He’d tried writing letters to former friends and flames in his head, but that had been depressing. Now, he was jiggling his leg while staring at the bright embers with wide eyes, which made them sting

He’d tried following Natasha’s movement through the woods with his hearing, but eventually she’d been so far away that he couldn’t enhance his ears even more without being deafened by snores and the normally quiet crackle of the fire.

Where the fuck was Nat? He was about to grab his swords and armour when he finally, blessedly, heard steps behind him. He twisted around, wide and hopeful eyes on the trees and, minutes later, she slid out of the shadows. He wanted to jump up to greet her but she raised her hand to still him. He closed his mouth again. On light feet, she snuck around their sleeping companions, stepped over Rhodes and finally lowered herself to her bedroll next to him. 

He was almost vibrating out of his skin in anticipation but she didn’t look worried. She must have divested herself of her gear before she’d come into hearing distance because she was only wearing her coat and the bag over her shoulder. He could see her give an inaudible sigh when she was finally settled and warm, making him cringe. He should have been the one to investigate, not Nat.  _ By Melitele, she must be so tired _ , he thought with regret.

He leaned forward and she met him in the middle, her hand cupping his neck and her lips pressed to his ear. “They are Redanian.“ He nodded. It only made sense; they were in Redania, after all. 

“Did you find out why they’re here?” 

She shook her head. “But they had rangers with them and they don’t look like they’re geared for all out combat.” He frowned. 

“What could they be doing here?”

“I think they are following us,” she answered and he pulled back to look into her eyes. She was deadly serious. If they were following their group… that meant trouble for them. He hadn’t trusted one word that had passed between Radovid’s lips, hadn’t trusted the false courteousness or the ego stroking the man had almost devolved into. For good reason, it seemed now. If Radovid had sent a troop of soldiers after them, no matter for what purpose, they were in trouble.

He tried to think of Radovid's reasoning. Maybe the King was trying to rig the competition in someone’s favour; a host cheating to achieve a certain outcome wasn’t unheard of. Maybe he’d sent them to kill them. Redania was well known for their anti-non-human politics; ergo, Radovid’s plan had been to draw them together to be slaughtered. 

“How many soldiers?” 

“Three dozen.” Which was barely enough if they planned to outright attack their group. Maybe they hoped to separate them, get them alone. But Nat had said that they weren’t equipped for head on combat. His eyes travelled over their sleeping teammates; for a moment, they lingered on Barnes before Clint forced himself to look at Sam. 

“What do you think?” His words were as quiet as he could make them. Natasha pressed her lips together.

“We don’t have enough information,” she answered. “They could be here for some other reason, or anything.” He frowned. Having them here, in the middle of unpopulated, rough terrain, seemed like too much of a coincidence to ignore.

She must have seen the doubtful look in his eyes because she nodded. “Improbable, I know. But we don’t know enough. Tomorrow night, I’ll need you to listen for them again, see if they are still behind us.” Her hand tightened on his neck. “If they are, we’ll tell the others.” He grimaced. So they wouldn’t even tell Sam right away. 

He got it, though. As much as they respected Sam, the other Griffin was young and, at least compared to them, inexperienced. Natasha and Clint had things in common. One of them was their almost paranoid need to keep their cards close to their chest. It had kept her alive for a century and him alive since he’d left the company of his brother and mentors. Giving that up now was hard, harder than it probably should be. But they didn’t have a choice; not telling would only make the group vulnerable to what Radovid had planned for them. 

He chewed his lip for a second longer, then gave a nod that Natasha returned. She let go. “Go to sleep, I’ll wake up Steve to take second watch.” He nodded.

As soon as his head hit his bedroll, his back to the fire, he was gone. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, feeling guilty, finally manages to open his mouth around Clint without insulting the other. Also, there might be more additions to the team.

When Bucky woke up the next day, he felt stiff and clammy from the cold and the mist that had settled during the early morning hours. After the incident the day before, he had chosen to make his bed a bit away from the team, ignoring Steve’s concerned looks. Wilson and Romanoff hadn’t used their words, but it had still been clear; he should keep his distance after he’d hurt Barton. 

Not that he’d done it on purpose. He hadn’t, but the outcome had been the same. 

He sat up and pulled the rough wool of his blanket around himself. In front of him, the camp was slowly starting to wake up. Steve was already folding his blanket, Wilson was stretching on the other side of the fire and Rhodes was trying to wake a clearly reluctant Stark. Barton was still sleeping without a care in the world and Bucky almost had to smile at Romanoff’s futile attempts at shaking him awake. Before anyone could catch him looking, he glanced away.

Too late, because when he did, he was met by Steve’s knowing eyes. He gave his friend a raised eyebrow. With a sigh, Steve put his blanket down and stepped closer to kneel beside him.

“You should apologise,” he whispered. Bucky widened his eyes and shook his head, but Steve didn’t budge. “No, Buck. I know that you weren’t trying to hurt him yesterday. But he doesn’t.” He stared at Bucky with insistent blue eyes. “And I know it bothers you.” 

Bucky scoffed. “The hell do I care?” 

“Stop it, I know you do,” Steve said with an annoying amount of conviction. But he was wrong. Bucky didn’t care, didn’t want to. And why should he? 

Steve didn’t seem to understand that, though. “I’m not asking you to kiss the guy-“ Bucky’s jaw clenched “- or anything. Just tell him you didn’t mean it and see how it goes, okay?” 

Stiffly, Bucky nodded. He knew that Steve wouldn’t shut up about it until he agreed. But he didn’t really… he didn’t  _ really _ have to talk to Barton, right? The thought alone made him nervous. Steve clapped him on the back and gave him a grin, then left.

With a groan, Bucky shoved himself to his feet. He really was stiff, his left shoulder especially. He was absolutely not looking forward to spending another full day in the saddle. Damn it. Slowly, he got dressed, which mostly meant putting on the armour plates on top of the thick leather jerkin and chainmail he’d slept in. He’d just slung the steel spangled leather strap of his sheaths over his chest, when his eyes once again fell on Barton. The other witcher was getting geared up as well and Bucky absentmindedly noted that the bulbous chest piece he wore over his jerkin didn’t become Barton at all. 

He shook his head to dispel the thoughts. Disrespecting the man’s skills was one thing, commenting on his unflattering armour was another. 

Saddle bag over his shoulder and bedroll under his arm, he greeted Alpine. “Hey, girl,” he murmured, stroking the soft fur on her nose. She nickered. “Slept well?” Steps sounded behind him and he turned, surprised to see Barton standing between him and the horse bound to the same tree as his mare. He blinked and realised that it was Lucky.

Barton had his back to Bucky, already in the process of saddling his gelding, and didn’t seem to have noticed Bucky behind him. Or was deliberately ignoring him. As he watched, Barton turned his head down and put the fingers of his right hand to his ear. Bucky stepped closer, curious and the Griffin flinched violently then whirled around. 

“Barnes! Fucking hell, don’t sneak up on me,” he called.

“I didn’t-“ Bucky started but Barton had already turned around again, busying himself with Lucky’s saddle girth. He tried not to feel stung. But after all this time spent glaring at each other, being ignored felt… bad. And Bucky still had to talk to him.  _ Now or never. _

“Barton.” At first, the man didn’t react. Then, his shoulders sagged and he twisted to look at him. He looked tired. Bucky hesitated.

“What is it, Barnes?”

He licked his lips. “I’m sorry for yesterday.” There it was, finally. The thing he hadn’t been able to articulate right after it had happened, with the eyes of the whole team on him. 

At first, Barton only stared at him, searching. Then he mumbled, “Sure.” 

Bucky frowned. It was clear that Barton didn’t believe him, but once again, he felt unable to respond. He opened his mouth, closed it, averted his eyes from the blue in front of him and fidgeted. He felt his face heat up.  _ Way to go, Buck _ , he thought, embarrassed. But Barton didn’t comment on his obvious unease, only gave a stiff nod and faced Lucky’s flank again. 

Bucky slumped. That had gone less than stellar, although he didn’t really know what “stellar” would have looked like to begin with. Brave as he was, he opted for flight. 

  
  


They hadn’t been riding for more than a couple of hours when Wilson at the front drew up his hand and shushed them, drawing the team to a halt. It only took them a moment to realise what had made him stop; metallic clanging in the distance. A fight. 

Bucky cursed. 

As one, the group sprung into movement and, before he had time to think, Alpine was already sprinting after the horses ahead of them. He bent low over the saddle and gripped the reins tightly. They were racing through the thick underbrush, off every possible path, leaping over fallen trees and little creeks. He kept his eyes on Steve in the front, hard to spot in the flickering shadow. 

The trees around them started to get sparser until finally, they came in full view of an ongoing fight in the distance. And not a pretty one, by the sight of it. Three men in straggly clothes had ganged up on a fourth and were trying to overpower him. Seconds later, Bucky realised that the fourth man was, in fact, Thor, the witcher they had only briefly met back at the keep. 

Their team had stopped a hundred meters away from the struggle and impatiently, Bucky led Alpine around Nomad to get a better view. Thor didn‘t seem fazed by his attackers at all, rather the opposite:

He seemed to be having fun. 

Three human men, no matter how well each of them was trained, could hardly stand up to a witcher using his full strength, so taking on one of Thor‘s bearing was brave, and stupidly so. Even Bucky would hesitate going up against that absolute mountain of a man. 

As he watched, the Bear dodged a blow aimed at his midsection, more swiftly than his mass alluded to, and tripped the oncoming attacker into stumbling past him. Another got a steel clad punch to the chest, the next a shove when Thor parried his sword with the hilt of his hammer. 

“The Marauders,” a voice said next to Bucky. He suppressed a flinch and turned to Romanoff, who’d led her horse to stand on his left. He hadn’t bothered with listening to the team when they’d talked about their competition, but  _ the Marauders _ rang a bell.

Before he could ask Romanoff for more detail, a movement in his periphery caught his attention and his head whipped around. A man, the same one who had accompanied Thor at the keep, was crouched behind a boulder between the team and Thor, hidden from the fight; but not them. And although Thor had seemingly missed their arrival, his friend hadn’t. 

On his right, Steve dismounted, leaving Nomad free to graze, and strode towards the man behind the boulder. Bucky followed. The man- Banner? -straightened when he saw them approach, with obvious reluctance. He stood up, left his hideout and met them in the middle. 

“Steve Rogers, was it? The Captain?” Banner asked hesitantly and Bucky relaxed a fraction. He didn’t seem hostile, at least. 

Steve nodded politely and returned, “Bruce Banner, if I remember correctly. What’s the problem, here?” They could still hear the clash of steel behind Banner, as well as a booming laugh coming from their fellow witcher. Bucky had to hide a smile. 

“We were riding when those men ambushed us.” The loud thud of a body hitting the ground was heard and Banner closed his eyes, his jaw clenched tightly. At first, Bucky thought that the other was trying to stem his fear, but then his medallion started to twitch. Not enough to be worrisome, but there was clearly magic in the air, even if it was weak. There might be more to Banner than his timid demeanour, Bucky realised with a frown. 

Steve turned around and met his eyes, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Bucky hadn’t been the only one who’d felt it. 

“Do you need our help with anything?” Steve, always the saviour, asked Banner. 

“Thank you, but I think Thor has it under control.” Another thud, another laugh and Banner winced. “He’s just having fun.” 

Steve grinned. “I understand,” he assured. Bucky almost rolled his eyes; as much as Steve liked to advocate for non-violent conflict resolution, he also thought fighting was a genuinely enjoyable pastime. Bucky himself preferred to only wield his swords when he really had to.

He threw a look over his shoulder. The rest of their group had dismounted as well and was currently taking a break. His gaze caught on Barton, who was once again standing with his head down, the fingers of his right hand at his ear. As he watched, Barton straightened and turned towards Romanoff, shaking his head. Bucky frowned. The Griffin had been distracted all day, and Bucky didn’t fancy himself important enough to think it was because of what had happened between them. 

Another booming laugh drew his attention back to the ongoing fight. It looked like Thor had finally taken notice of them. With brutal ease, he swung his hammer to crush the skull of one man, caved in the second’s sternum, and snapped the third’s neck with only a flick of his wrist. Then, he hefted his blood splattered hammer over his shoulder and strolled towards them, a wide grin on his face.

“My comrades!” he called. “How nice it is to see you again so soon!” With seemingly no care in the world, Thor leaned his hammer on a nearby rock and stretched his hand out. Steve clasped the man’s forearm with obvious vigour, uncaring of the brutality they had just been witness to. Bucky got a solid thump on his right shoulder as a greeting and winced so hard, he almost missed Steve’s resulting snigger. He rolled his shoulder to ease the ache. 

“We heard the noise, so we came running to see if we could help. Seems like you had it handled, though,” Steve says after getting his face back under control. 

Thor grinned again. “Not to worry, Captain. They were but a tiny inconvenience.”

  
  


They moved back to the rest of their group to take a well deserved lunch break and discuss their next steps. 

“So, are you gonna stay?” Wilson spoke up and eyed Thor and Banner, who’d joined them in their lunch as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The chatter ceased immediately, and even Barton and Romanoff resurfaced from where they’d huddled together. 

Bucky watched as Barton and Wilson exchanged a meaningful look. Bucky understood; he’d made his peace with the fact that this little adventure of theirs would leave him without much reward, but that may not be true for everyone.

“Worry not, my friend,” Thor proclaimed and Wilson raised his eyebrows, “if you so wish, we shall depart immediately.” Before Thor could heave himself to his feet, Banner clamped a hand on his companion’s shoulder. 

He looked at Steve. “If you don’t mind, Captain, I have a proposal to make.” Bucky didn’t miss Barton’s brows furrowing nor how Romanoff tilted her head in a deceptively curious way when Banner addressed Steve, instead of the whole team. Steve had stood out as the team leader more and more lately and this wouldn’t be the first time him taking over the role caused conflict. 

Discord, people causing a ruckus, was the last thing they needed on this quest, so before Steve could get a word out, Bucky butted in. “If you have a proposal, you can make it to all of us.” He caught Steve’s confused face from the corner of his eye and Banner looked unsure, but it had been necessary. Steve often didn’t understand how his behaviour could sometimes attract people’s jealousy, rivalry, and ill will, so it was often up to Bucky to watch his back when Steve himself didn’t think to do so. 

“Of course, I apologise,” Banner muttered and looked around, all the team sat in a circle on various rocks and boulders, or simply sprawled on the ground like Barton and Romanoff. “Seeing how you banded together at the keep, and later seemed to have taken in two more-“ he nodded at Stark and Rhodes “-we were wondering, if you would mind letting us join you as well?” He got only silence in return.

Bucky suppressed a sigh and watched the team exchange glances. Wilson looked worried. Again, Bucky got it. If they let Thor and Banner join, they’d have a share of the trophy money as well and the shares were already small enough. 

“With all due respect.” Bucky threw Barton a surprised look, but the other just kept on talking. “Why should we let you?” Barton rose from his sprawl into a crouch, now on eye level with Thor and Banner. “The way I see it, we have enough manpower to win this competition and you don‘t. And if five witchers and two knights won‘t be enough to kill the Ice Giant, another witcher and-“ he trailed off and gave Banner a questioning frown.

“Alchemist,” Banner supplied and Clint nodded.

“Another witcher and an alchemist won’t do the trick either.” Wilson nodded in agreement and even Rhodes looked thoughtful. “So if we took you in and then win this, it would only diminish our shares in the prize money so far that our take won’t even be enough to get our armour repaired afterwards.” Barton crossed his arms in front of his chest and met Thor‘s serious gaze unflinchingly.

Barton made a good point and Bucky reluctantly agreed with him. He could already see the unhappy glint in Steve‘s eyes, but he never knew when to say ‘no’ to people. He was a good man and wanted to help everyone around him. It was one of the things Bucky admired most about him, although it had brought them trouble more than once. 

“What about the treasure?” Stark piped up.

Wilson scoffed. “There’s no treasure, kid.” 

“But the King said there would be,” Stark said. “His men reported it to him, don’t you remember?”

“I remember alright.” Wilson frowned. “But Ice Giants aren’t known to hoard a treasure, why would they start now?”

Stark scowled. “But why-“

“Kid,” Barton interrupted with a sigh, “the King lied to get us to overlook the fact that he only paid five thousand crowns for the head of a legendary monster.”

Romanoff nodded. “He hosts a competition, something that brings traffic and fame to his land and name, shows some goodwill towards non-humans while implementing more laws to oppress them and gets rid of a major threat to the trade with Kaedwen. All of that for five thousand crowns and almost no effort on his part.” 

Steve growled and spit, “Fucking nobility.” Stark seemed offended, but a highly amused looking Rhodes elbowed him into silence. 

“We are in agreement on this matter, my friends,” Thor spoke up. Bucky almost grimaced at the way the man addressed them. “But worry not. We are not here for any prize, so you shall be the ones to receive it.” Thor grinned wildly and thumped Banner on the back. “We require nothing but the thrill of fighting a legendary foe not seen for centuries.” The thump almost rattled Banner’s glasses loose and the man straightened them with a helpless smile in their direction. Bucky threw another look towards the rest of the team and met Barton’s similarly puzzled eyes. His heart thumped in his chest and quickly, he glanced away again.

“You can have our share as well,” Rhodes announced. When the rest of the team turned to look at him, he shrugged sheepishly. “It’s not like this guy here needs more money and I get paid pretty well to take care of him.” Stark looked like he was going to protest, but Rhodes clamped a firm hand over his friend’s mouth. 

The witchers exchanged more glances. In the end, Bucky only shrugged. He didn’t really care about the pay all that much, anyway. 

  
  


Having come to an agreement to continue their journey all together, they ended their impromptu break and mounted their horses again. They left the bodies of their rival competitors in the dust for the crows to feast on.

Normally, Bucky preferred to ride in the back, keeping an eye on his travel companions as well as one out for any threats, but he soon realised that his usual spot was occupied. No matter how much he slowed Alpine down, Barton kept behind him, stiff in the saddle and attention elsewhere. Bucky had been alarmed for a moment, but he couldn’t sense anything that would warrant such scrutiny and Barton didn’t speak up, so he let it go. It was unlike him, but he’d rather not get into a pissing contest with the other man again. At least, not so soon after the last one. 

So, he let it go and spurred Alpine into a gallop to ride next to Steve; if he wasn’t gonna get any peace and quiet, he at least wanted the company of his best friend.   
  


When they stopped for the night, Bucky leapt out of the saddle, stretched to loosen his stiff muscles and tried to massage his aching shoulder. He left setting up camp to the others and led Alpine to the riverbank they had chosen to settle next to. It was a different river from the one they had stopped by the day before, much broader and wilder. Also, the temperature had dropped again, making Bucky shiver in the cold breeze. There was nothing here that could protect them from the wind besides the overhang of a boulder they had squeezed under; he could only see a handful of scraggly trees here and there, not nearly big enough to provide shelter. 

Huddled next to Alpine, he cursed himself. It served him right for being too arrogant to buy a coat back at the keep, he guessed. He wouldn’t be taking another ice cold bath anytime soon, though. 

Having taken care of Alpine and refilled his water skin, Bucky joined the rest of the crew around the pitiful campfire they had managed to construct.

With a snort, he plopped down next to Steve. “Are we being a little cheap today?” He knocked their shoulders together. 

“Shut up,” Steve returned, “have you tried looking for firewood around here? That’s the absolute best I could do, ass.” Bucky grinned. Damn, but he loved it when Steve cursed. 

A thump a few meters away made him turn his head to Wilson, who had dropped an armload of soggy sticks to the ground and was now meandering over to sit on Steve’s other side. 

“Was that a grin I saw, Barnes? Is there fun hidden under all that grump?” Wilson asked, wiggling his index finger in Bucky’s direction. He had to fight with himself to not just rip it off. Barton would kill him. 

“Careful, Wilson. You don’t want me keeping that.” He flexed the fingers of his metal hand in demonstration.

Wilson only grinned.

Natasha appeared in front of them. “Having fun, boys?”

_ Uhh, I’m in trouble _ , Bucky thought and schooled his features into the blandest mask he could manage. When had he made the mistake of looking approachable? He searched the rest of the camp, but Barton was nowhere in sight. 

When his eyes returned to the Black Widow, her attention was fixed on him, and he tensed. He knew she’d eventually confront him about his quarrel with her friend, had seen it in her eyes the night before. But he’d hoped he’d averted their confrontation with his apology. 

Steve and Wilson had started a conversation next to them, but neither moved their focus from one another. Bucky didn’t know what Romanoff would do next, but he was good at putting up a stony facade and nothing, not even a witcher of her calibre, could break it. 

Maybe he was being a little dramatic. 

It was a hurried set of footsteps that broke their eye contact. Bucky turned just in time to see Barton hasten up the incline to where they had set up camp underneath the overhang. Before Bucky could blink, Romanoff had leapt to her feet again and intercepted Barton before he reached the team. For a few minutes, the two were deep in discussion, lips pressed close to the other’s ear and Bucky’s metal hand clenched so hard that from the corner of his eye, he vaguely registered Steve giving him a strange look. Bucky couldn’t take his attention off Barton and Romanoff, though. 

Not for the first time, he wondered whether the two were more than just friends. The frequent glances, the constant whispering, the way Barton always put his bedroll next to Romanoff’s. Bucky was just curious, he told himself. 

He watched as Barton started gesticulating, as Romanoff’s grew more serious by the second, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out their words. 

Finally, Romanoff stepped back, gave Barton a nod and returned to their little group, Barton in tow. Quickly, Bucky averted his eyes and focused back on Steve. And although he stared at his best friend, he didn’t hear a single thing coming out of his mouth, too conscious of the two witchers coming closer.

“Steve,” Romanoff interrupted Steve in the middle of-. Of what? Had he been talking about cabbage?

“There’s something important we need to tell you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you thought?
> 
> You can find me on [ tumblr ](https://kidd-you-not.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Oh, and please check out the lovely [ commission ](https://bigwolfpup.tumblr.com/post/612000601346392064/recent-commissions-done-for-kidd-you-not-and) of Witcher!Clint [ bigwolfpup ](https://bigwolfpup.tumblr.com/) made for me!


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